


Deep as the Forest

by smallsteps32



Category: Cabin Pressure, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cabin Pressure AU - Hogwarts.</p><p>Attending school in an enchanted castle doesn't change the fact that the cabin crew's hearts belong to the skies.</p><p>Martin and Arthur both want to get on their house teams, and Douglas, tossed unceremoniously from his Hufflepuff captaincy, may be their only hope. His only saving grace right now is the good favour of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, Flying Instructor, whose position at Hogwarts may be hanging by a thread. </p><p>The controversy surrounding her place within the school might not be so dire, had the last anyone seen of GERTI not been a pillar of smoke rising over the Forbidden Forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my annual attempt at writing something big. It's choppy and I'm not sure how well the story is gonna work, but I'm super excited about it. So please do enjoy, let me know what you think of the first chapter, and I'll get going on the next as soon as I can.

CHAPTER ONE

The first week of Fifth Year was already a seething mass of poorly restrained panic, helped in no part by the professors’ insistence on reminding them all that OWLs would be the hardest challenge they had faced in their short lives. It was mad then, to consider pouring their energy into anything other than the revision they were already woefully unprepared for.

That was why Martin Crieff was up so early, Saturday morning, on his way to the Quidditch pitch. Slytherin try-outs weren’t for another month, but a year hadn’t passed, in the five he had been at Hogwarts, that he hadn’t attended. This year would be _his_ year. Damn OWLs. This was more important. All he had to do was practice –sooner, earlier, and more preparedly than before. He had even brought proper robes.

Unfortunately, it seemed he hadn’t been the only one with such an idea.

Although the September sun was weak, breaking through the mountainous peaks across the lake and a layer of morning mist, it reached the one thing that made Martin’s heart sink. Students on broomsticks weaved in and around the tall stands. Some were wobbly, close to the ground. Others streaked across hte sky.

Martin gripped his own splintering Comet mournfully. Years under Simon’s hulking mass had done something terrible to the dampening charms.

Still... Martin set his shoulders back and tipped his chin up. It would take more than a few spectators to put him off. It wasn’t as though these were try-outs or a real team practice. No one would judge him for getting some laps in or perfecting some manoeuvres.

The noise surrounding the stands turned into a bustling murmur when Martin reached the grass. He could see at a glance that the pitch was alive with activity. Fantastic. It would be just his luck if he fell off his broom and landed on the group of First Year girls doing loop the loops in the far corner. They weren’t even allowed brooms, he thought bitterly. _He_ hadn’t been allowed one. And he hoped, as he stopped to adjust his gloves, that those Gryffindors didn’t get any funny ideas. They were tossing something slimy amongst themselves.

Honestly, the pitch should have been reserved for serious players. How was he meant to practice-

“Crieff, flight plan!”

Martin jumped as Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, flying instructor, approached him. She was kitted out in her gear as though she planned on refereeing an impromptu match. When Martin didn’t answer straight away, she clicked her fingers.

“I haven’t got all day – flight plan.”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“What are you planning on doing? I don’t suppose you dragged your broom all the way out here for a spot of sun bathing?”

“Oh... oh, no, um...”

Despite their numerous encounters over the years, Martin still found her embarrassingly intimidating. Everyone knew that Professor Knapp-Shappey was a Squib, but as a Squib who had blagged her way far enough for the Sorting Hat to declare her a Gryffindor before she was caught, the general consensus was that she was not to be underestimated. The Headmistress had even let her stay and learn what she could – discovering an affinity for flight somewhere along the way, although she was no player.

Now, she taught the First Years how to fly and kept an eye on the teams.

Martin almost envied her.

“I was just going to do some drills – practice some feints, and some cornering – typical Chaser manoeuvres, that’s all.”

“Well, far be it for me to stop you,” Carolyn replied. She took stock of the pitch, and then inspected Martin’s broom with a sharp eye. “Ah, yes... with this you had better stay close by. I’ve given each group of students their own area to avoid any more incidents. I wasn’t here two minutes before I had to send someone to the hospital wing to have the wrong end of a broom removed from a place I would rather forget.”

Martin nodded and looked out across the pitch. There was a clear patch of sky at the back.

“Over there looks alright.”

“I fear you misheard me when I said _close by_ ,” Carolyn said. “Let me give you the benefit of the doubt. You will stay _here_ , by the stands. Understood?”

“Yes, Professor.” Martin hung his head, but did as he was told. He could already feel his cheeks burning as Carolyn walked away to deal with a troubling shriek from above their heads.

Right by the stands, where everyone could see him. Just fabulous. That was exactly what he needed.

A wiser person would have turned his back. Instead, Martin pretended to brush dust from the handle of his broom and peeked at the few gathered spectators. His stomach turned at the sight of three of the four team captains, sitting with their friends. Probably checking out the new blood before try-outs, Martin thought miserably.

There was Hercules Shipwright, Keeper and captain of Gryffindor’s team. A seventh year Hufflepuff that Martin knew only as Sergeant was the newly instated captain of his house team. And finally, Yves Jutteau, captain of the Slytherin team – the one person Martin needed to impress and he was here, with his feet up, sneering and pointing up at the shaky laps a pair of Second Years were doing.

A hand grasped Martin’s shoulder.

“Martin!”

Before he could react, Martin was pulled into a tight, but brief hug. Then Theresa, a fellow fifth year and Ravenclaw team captain, held him at arm’s length. She looked him over fondly.

“Look at you. You’re red as a tomato,” she said. “But so well dressed. You _have_ done this properly, haven’t you?”

“Hmm...” Martin didn’t mention the fact that his gear wasn’t nearly as professional as her own pale blue robes. “Well, I uh... I didn’t expect anyone else to be here actually. I’m probably a bit overdressed.”

“Nonsense. You are dashing.”

Martin flushed, cheeks burning even hotter. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“What about you? What are you doing – out here, I mean.”

Theresa took a seat on one of the lower benches and rested her arms on her knees. The breeze ruffled her short curls just so. She looked exactly as a Quidditch player ought to.

“Why, I am taking note of which hopeful members of my house are putting in the most effort,” she explained. “These are the faces I will remember at try-outs.” She shifted a foot to the left. A miss-aimed Beater’s bat collided with the beam just behind where her head had been moments before. She retrieved it and tenderly brushed her fingertips along its length. “I keep mine in much better condition.”

“Right, well... I should get going,” Martin said, after a moment.

“Good. Go on. I will be cheering.”

“Please don’t.”

Once Martin was in the air – in the area Carolyn had assigned him – he could breathe easier. He wasn’t the best flyer, but he was steady. He hovered about eight feet up, turning small, slow circles. The shouts of those around him were drowned out by the wind coursing around his ears. It was peaceful.

His gaze fell upon Yves Jutteau.

Just like that, Martin was cold. His grip on the handle slipped and his palms grew sweaty.

It was only a little fumble. Martin was upright again in seconds. But his heart was racing. He could hear it thundering inside his head. There was no way out knowing if Jutteau had seen his mistake – he hadn’t even really started practicing yet. Instead of driving himself mad, Martin searched for something else to focus on. His eyes leapt from the students in the air, down to the ground, to Carolyn – then past her, to two figures wandering around the edge of the pitch.

From so far, he could only just identify them – both taller than was reasonable.

One was Carolyn’s son, Arthur  - a fourth year in Ravenclaw. The other was Hufflepuff’s former captain, Douglas Richardson. Martin had never had much to do with either of them, but they were often hanging around when Quidditch was involved.

Given that Douglas had been dropped from the team, despite being one of the best players Hogwarts had seen in years, it was odd that he still came down. Martin let his curiosity occupy his mind, and set about his drills. Everything would be fine once he was back on track, he decided, as he dropped into a roll.

Martin found the ground again later, feeling more confident than he had in months. When someone caught his arm, he turned ready to ask Theresa how he had done. Instead, he was met with Jutteau, looming over him.

“Crieff.”

“Hi – hello, um – what’s... what’s going on? Everything good? Good – yes – was there something you-”

“Going for the team again, Crieff?” Jutteau asked, hand still resting on Martin’s arm, keeping him rooted to the spot.

Martin nodded. “Yes.”

“Ah, well – you see, I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. Some very flashy diving,” Jutteau said, eyes lighting up when Martin’s chin dropped. If he knew the dives had been clumsy mistakes, he didn’t say outright. “The thing is, I’m just not sure there is a place for you on the team.”

“Slytherin needs a whole new line up – e-except for you, obviously.”

“Obviously, yes. Of course, it is up to you. You are welcome to attend the try-outs. I’m sure it will do wonders for your confidence. However, who am I to say...” Jutteau gave an overdramatic shrug and stepped back. His smile was particularly duplicitous. “Actually, I am the captain... I have a lot of say-”

“Get to the point,” Martin snapped, and regretted it immediately.

Jutteau’s expression darkened.

“My point is, I only have so much time on my hands. I would rather not waste it watching you _not_ get chosen... again.”

~~~

There was only so much space in the changing room for pacing, and Douglas wasn’t one to be caught restless, so he slouched to a halt. Even though the room had hardly been used in the first week of term, the air was thick with the musty ghost of sweat once left to stagnate.

It was his seventh year – sixth since he had made the Hufflepuff team – and he still couldn’t help wrinkling his nose. The fact that Arthur was humming his own version of the school song in a fit of home pride didn’t help his mood.

Huffing, Douglas dropped onto the bench beside the crate of old wrist guards that Arthur was picking through on his mother’s instruction. Not all of the new players would be able to afford their own gear. As tight pursed Carolyn was, she wouldn’t fork out of her own pocket – so second hand it was.

“I think this is one of your old ones,” Arthur remarked from the floor. “I suppose it must be nice to end up with lots of other wrist guards. Imagine being thrown in the bin when your owner didn’t want you anymore. Yuck.”

“Exactly what went through my mind,” Douglas replied dryly. He eyed the spots of blood on the ones Arthur tossed aside.

God, he missed playing.

He could be outside with the others, showing the newbies how it was done. Instead, he owed Carolyn everything for getting him banned rather than expelled. One of the few things that set him apart from the others – a muggleborn excelling and flying from the moment he first picked up a broom – and it was gone. Ruined. No one at Hogwarts cared that he could play piano at Grade Eight with voice accompaniment, or cook (the elves did it better but that was poor luck), or that he could be a poet when prompted.

Quidditch though... the prestige, the fans, the thrill of being hundreds of feet in the air, scoring goals as the stands clamoured with applause... it was his own fault, he supposed.

“Hey, Douglas... _Douglas_!”

“Yes, Arthur?”

Arthur was leaning over the crate, face red enough to reveal he was thinking things he shouldn’t have been as he whispered too loud.

“Are we still on for tonight?”

Douglas leaned in closer. He ignored the smell that suggested something was rotting inside the crate. Nose to nose, save for a few inches, he spoke softly.

“Of course we’re still on. Your mother will be busy until late with the eager recruits outside, so naturally, she won’t expect us to hang around all day.”

“I would if we didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I know, Arthur.”

“So...”

“So, at noon we go to lunch.”

“Should we go together,” Arthur asked. He jittered with nervous excitement. “I mean, wouldn’t that make people suspicious?”

“Perhaps it might, if we didn’t _always_ have lunch together.”

“Not always. I have lunch with the other Ravenclaws after Transfiguration, and you always come out of Potions with-”

“As much as I admire your sudden strictness in terms of semantics, night will have fallen by the time we get outside if you don’t stop interrupting me,” Douglas said, louder this time. He paused, and there was blessed silence. “Alright then-”

“Sorry.”

Douglas sighed. “Arthur...”

“I just really want this to work.”

“And it will,” Douglas assured him. He rested against the edge of the crate. “Your mother will be out of the way. I’ve been assured that Peeves will be keeping Filch occupied somewhere near the Astronomy Tower, which means he’ll probably be nearer the Trophy Room. You are to come down from Ravenclaw Tower at the time we discussed-”

“Eight.”

“Exactly, eight – well within curfew, and if anyone talks to you, you say you’re coming to find me, which you will be.”

“Because you’ll be by the kitchens.”

“Which is close enough to my common room that no one will question it,” Douglas concluded. “From there it’s simply a case of getting where we need to be in a reasonable amount of time.”

Arthur nodded sagely and settled back on his haunches. Deep thought wasn’t something easily attributed to him, but Douglas could tell he was working through something that stole the colour from his cheeks and the bounce from his shoulders.

“What if it’s not there?”

“You mean if we don’t find it?”

“No, I mean what if it’s not there, Douglas.” Arthur shrugged and tapped his nails along the edge of the crate, making the smell worse. “Everyone says it’s a long shot, and-”

Douglas raised his hand. Arthur fell silent.

“Arthur, are you going to listen to everyone or are you going to listen to me?”

“Oh, you. You’re almost always right.”  
“Precisely. Which is why I know that it _is_ there. _You_ know that it’s there. It’s non-disputable fact –and we both know that. The fact that half the school doesn’t care and the other half are calling it a rumour doesn’t matter because we _know_. It’s not like it could just vanish.”

“It could in the Wizarding world,” Arthur insisted. He rose up on his knees again, serious as he ever got. “Look, Douglas. My dad’s a muggle, so I know how you’re probably thinking – oh, things don’t just disappear. But what if someone took it, or it fell in some kind of hold – a magic one. We don’t really know what sort of thing lives in the forest-”

“ _The Forest?”_

Douglas’ head snapped up as a shrill voice cut through the changing room. Inside the door was a short, red-faced fifth year in Slytherin green, who he was sure was called Martin – Yes, he remembered him from last year’s try-outs, which he had dutifully spied upon. The boy had a broom in one hand and his outer robe in the other.

“The Forbidden Forest?” Martin said. He marched to the row of lockers and stopped. “You two aren’t really thinking of going in there? It’s forbidden! That’s one of the _first_ things we’re told _not_ to do at the start of year feast – _every_ year.”

“No – no – we’re definitely not,” Arthur said. Scrambling to his feet, he was equally red in the face, terrible at lying.

“Really?” Martin demanded.

Douglas rose slowly. He made no effort to appear undeterred.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Long enough.”

“Then I suppose you’ve heard enough to know this is none of your business,” Douglas continued. He crossed the space, coming to rest just near enough that Martin had to tip his head back to look him in the eye – which he was surprised to note he definitely did, clearly too stubborn for his own good. “By the way,” Douglas added, flashing a smile, “How did your practice go? You very nearly had that Weasley turn on point.”

Martin’s jaw clenched.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, so we do speak the same language. Good – oh. Arthur, pack up and-”

“No, n-no – hold on!” Martin darted in front of Douglas before he could do much more than turn around. “I can’t just let you walk away. The forest is out of bounds for a reason. You could get killed. Both of you!”

“But we won’t cause we’re not really going,” Arthur said, trailing off into a nervous laugh. He wrung his hands together. “It was all a joke – ha, ha. It’s hilarious. We’re not going anywhere really, are we Douglas?”

“That’s enough, Arthur.”

“Okay.”

Douglas opened his mouth, but Martin beat him too it. He bore down on him, uncomfortably close, and lowered his voice into a grating hiss.

“You should be setting a better example. He’s only fourteen. You’ll get him in trouble.”

“And you’re only fifteen, there abouts. Don’t lecture me about what’s good for Arthur,” Douglas growled, as though it mattered if Arthur heard. In spite of himself, he felt the sting in Martin’s words – an echo of the last thing he had heard before being tossed unceremoniously from Huffepuff’s captaincy. He puffed out his chest and pointed towards the door.

Then Carolyn walked in.

“Professor Knapp-Shappey!” Martin practically pounced, ignorant of Douglas rolling his eyes as Carolyn stared, bewildered, down at him.

“Mr Crieff, it’s been too long. Dare I even ask?”

“Yes, actually, you can. These two were planning on going into the dark forest – which is against school rules, might I add-”

“Believe it or not, Mr Crieff, I have been at this school far longer than even you.”

Wrong-footed and visibly so, Martin fell back. He turned back to catch Douglas’ eye. It was impossible not to feel a stab of superiority even though he knew he had been rumbled. He watched as Martin stammered and fidgeted.

“R-right, well-”

“Well indeed, Carolyn interrupted. “Leave it with me.”

Martin nodded fiercely and stepped aside. He hovered at the end of the lockers until Carolyn turned around and gestured dismissively.

“Did I request an audience? I realise you have suffered a disappointment today, Mr Crieff – lord knows we all have – but that is no reason to abandon flying and take up being judge, jury, and executioner.”

As Martin trudged outside, Douglas offered him a sarcastic little wave.

“Well, now that’s dealt with-”

“Douglas.” Carolyn’s voice was silky and sinister all at once as she crooked her finger. “A word, if you will.”


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The translucent host of Professor Binns droned on in front of the chalk board. He didn’t use it, but rather motioned intermittently at the pictures that had been on his walls for decades now. Little wisps of grey rose like smoke each time he did. At the back of the class, Douglas sat with his feet up on the back of the chair in front. Beside him, the window let in a brisk breeze. It was all that was keeping him awake.

While some of his classmates rested their heads on their desks – one snoring loud enough to wake the dead, if the dead hadn’t been utterly fixed in their ways – Douglas doodled absentmindedly in the centre of his planner. It was open to the current week. Tuesday was hidden behind his twitching quill.

On the left, a brief note reminded him that he ought to complete the Potions homework he hadn’t yet started. His Charms homework was written in damning red. It wasn’t that he couldn’t _do_ his assignments to a startling standard. Douglas just couldn’t find the energy anymore. Six full years of getting decent marks had taught him that teachers were only so impressed – and peers even less so – by the ability to retain numerous facts useless outside of a pub quiz or an exam.

_Tap! Tap – tap – tap!_

Although Binns droned on, Douglas saw a few heads turn in his direction. He glanced at the open window.

Perched on the sill was a small, squat little owl. It clutched a rolled up sheet of parchment. Careful not to move too quickly, lest Binns took it as a sign that he was paying attention and wanted to take part in the lesson, Douglas took the parchment. He let the owl nibble the end of his finger. When it left, he unrolled the letter.

A compact, curling script was inked across the centre.

_My office, lunchtime, no excuses. CK-S._

Well, that was that then.

Douglas hadn’t expected Carolyn to issue a detention when she discovered his plans to venture into the forest. He _had_ expected a little more than her stony faced dismissal and a promise that she would spend the next few hours coming up with ideas.

History of Magic dragged on for what seemed like hours. By the time it ended, Douglas knew enough about the Centaur Confederation’s blunders in 1203 to impress the pretty blonde Helena in the year below. He wasn’t sure it was enough to get him through his exams, but he could fake some opinions on the matter.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way to Carolyn’s office.

When he arrived, his heart sank. Then his chest was alight with righteous anger. Clenching his hands and puffing out his chest, Douglas measured his demeanour. He reached out and touched the door. His fingers came away red. It had been done recently, he surmised. If he wandered down the hall, he would likely find the culprit.

Across the door, tilted so it would fit, was a messily painted graffiti.

SQUIB

Douglas retrieved his wand. Chasing after the ones responsible would only make his late, and that would make Carolyn more likely to double his sentence. With a flick of his wrist, the paint was gone in seconds. He didn’t bother knocking. Instead, he entered the office and ignored Carolyn’s pointed eye roll.

She sat behind her desk, Arthur lounging opposite.

Around them, the office was a tidy array of framed photographs. While some depicted happily waving Arthurs at varying ages, others were stationary – frozen; the sort Douglas had grown up with. These proudly displayed a quaint, rusting little jet resting on an unknown tarmac.

“I take it you’ve seen your door?” Douglas asked.

“Many times,” Carolyn replied coolly. “I assume you mean today.”

There was no need to ask why she hadn’t removed the paint. Her choices included scrubbing it herself, waiting for Filch, or asking one of her colleagues for help. None were Carolyn’s style. Douglas didn’t blame her. She shouldn’t have had to do anything.

Rather than pry, he took a seat beside Arthur.

“Hello, Douglas.”

“Hello, Arthur. Nice day?”

“Professor Longbottom said he was impressed by how long it took me to notice the Venomous Tentacular pulling my leg.”

“As proud a moment as this is for all of us, Dearheart, that’s not what I summoned Douglas here to discuss,” Carolyn interrupted, before the story could gain any traction. Although she was clearly prepared for something, there was no paperwork on her desk, no forms to fill out – not even a pair of Chaser’s gloves or anything she usually brought out when she entertained visitors.

“You’ve decided on a punishment,” Douglas said, folding hsi hands in his lap. He would take whatever she handed out. After all, she was one of the few teachers that never wrote to his parents. It was refreshing.

“Oh, it’s not a punishment,” Arthur said. His grin was especially cheery.

“No, I wouldn’t call it a punishment,” Carolyn agreed. Her fingers tented atop her desk. As Douglas raised an eyebrow, she smiled as softly as she was capable. “Look at it as more of a job; one which I need doing, and for which you are ideally suited. In fact, it may even benefit you in the long-term.”

“You mean morally, of course?”

“I mean in terms of your career, should you want one. Of course, I’m entirely prepared to believe of you, Douglas, that you wish to spend the next fifty to sixty years of your life doing absolutely nothing at all except for sipping elf-made wine and spinning tall tales.”

Catching his surprise a moment too late, Douglas nodded. He looked away. A five year old Arthur waved down at him. It was a fair distraction. How Carolyn thought she might help him become a Healer was beyond him – then again, he couldn’t recall ever discussing those particular plans with her. She dabbled solely in Quidditch, but... Douglas tensed. He gripped the arm of his chair for just a moment.

Once, when he had been eleven or twelve and new to the world of magic, he had entertained fantasies of playing professionally.

“You do know I only planned to fly as long as I was in school,” he said slowly. He couldn’t even do that anymore. It had been so long since he had been in the air.

“And that may remain the case,” Carolyn said. “Nevertheless, if you do as I ask you can add ‘leadership skills’ to your CV. It’s a very hireable quality.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I would like you to get Arthur on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team,” Carolyn explained with a damning finality. For a moment, the office rang with an uncertain silence. Then she rubbed her hands together and said with a surprising vigour. “I’m sure someone with your skills could have him up to standard by try-outs. You can understand why I won’t have time.”

“It’s going to be brilliant,” Arthur added, patting Douglas’ wrist bracingly.

“Hold on – hold on!” Douglas threw up his hands in surrender, looking baffled between the two of them. Two pairs of brown eyes stared back undeterred. So did all the Arthurs on the wall, as though they sensed their boyhood dreams were about to come true. Douglas pushed his chair back in case he catch the madness. “You want me to do what?”

“I want you to tutor Arthur. Shall I clean your ears out and say it again?”

“And I want to be Seeker,” Arthur said. “I’ve always wanted to be one. I know I won’t be as good as you, but there’ll never be a better teacher. And we’re friends as well, which makes it even more fun for me.”

“So, I have decided that in order to keep you both far too busy to wander unsupervised into the Forbidden Forest, you, Douglas, will be taking Arthur out four times a week to prepare him for the team try-outs.” Carolyn glanced indulgently at her son, and then rose to her not-so considerable height. Her gaze was still daunting when it settled dead on Douglas’ own. “Don’t imagine this is actually a request. You got off the last incident with a ban and a promise to do whatever I demand. That still stands. I should point out, however, that the ban forbids you from playing Quidditch. It does not prevent you _flying_. You will be getting your broom back by tomorrow.”

“I got a new one too,” Arthur piped up. He retrieved a gleaming broomstick from the floor, previously hidden from view. “Look at this. It’s only an old Nimbus, but it’s brilliant. It goes so fast I scrape all the skin off my elbow when I fell off. Don’t worry though. Madam Pomfrey put it all back.”

Douglas say between them, lost for words.

The notion was ridiculous.

He had a heart full of affection for Arthur, but there was no way – none on earth – that he would ever make the team. Perhaps that was his real punishment – failing again, only this time he had to endure Arthur’s heartbreak. As though he hadn’t suffered enough already. There were only so many brave faces a boy could wear before he ran out.

“Carolyn...”

“No excuses. My mind is made up.”

“But I-”

“Arthur, dear, go and eat before the kitchens stop sending food up to the hall,” Carolyn instructed. She pinned Douglas with a glare that he knew meant he was to stay put.

It took all of five minutes for Arthur to collect himself and everything else he wanted to carry with him – his broom, his cloak, the tin of biscuits craftily stashed behind the box in which Carolyn kept her golden whistle.

Then he was gone.

“You know, Arthur really has wanted this all his life. His father’s a pilot. This is the next best thing,” Carolyn said, without preamble. “He wants to play professionally. Lord knows if he can, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to try. It’s not like I can take him to Oxford Aviation Academy without any A Levels. Apparently they don’t accept NEWTS in Muggle Studies – he was terribly disappointed and he hasn’t even got his OWLs yet.”

“That’s very admirable, but I-”

“Give me a good reason why not.”

Douglas shifted uncomfortably. He refused to look her in the eye. Instead, he watched a two dimensional Arthur repeatedly fall from a toy broomstick, a foot off the ground, onto a plush carpet in a living room filled with chintz and china.

On the face of it, he had nothing to lose. If nothing else, he could fly again, for a while. And if it helped his career in any way... this was his last year at Hogwarts.

“The decision’s been made,” he said. “There’ll be no dissuading Arthur now that he’s made up his mind.”

“Wild horses couldn’t stop him.”

“So...”

“So.”

Resistance crumbling, Douglas rose and headed for the door.

“I’ll be up bright and early tomorrow then. Make sure Arthur is too. The last time I ventured into Ravenclaw Tower, that damned knocked all but told me to bugger off.”

“Douglas.”

Douglas turned, hand on the knob. He didn’t react as Carolyn approached him, unusually weary.

“You know what the last few years have looked like. The divorce... GERTI...”

“I know.”

“He needs this.”

Nodding, Douglas managed a smile.

“I’ll do my best – which is always a treat to watch, so... keep your eyes peeled.”

Douglas left Carolyn’s office feeling pleasantly content. No punishment. Just a task to keep him busy. A challenge even – now that could be interesting.

He had barely gone three feet however before he ground to a halt. A shrill snort drew his attention to an alcove, half-hidden behind a suit of armour. Shadows were cast by the torch above it. Creeping forwards, Douglas got a clear view of Carolyn’s nephew, Kieran. He was only a second year, but he was flocked by an older boy and girl. Both of them eyed Carolyn’s office with malevolent glee.

Then Kieran stumbled into the corridor, pointing at the office.

He spotted Douglas.

“What are you doing here?”

“I ought to ask you the same, but I’m sure I already knew.”

“Well, I think you should go about your business,” Kieran said. He was beginning to look particularly uneasy now he had an audience. No matter how rigid his stance, his weight shifted from foot to foot.

Douglas smirked and shook his head.

“I don’t think do. No, you don’t happen to know anything about the little mural that as here  -oh, about half an hour ago?”

“No.” Kieran shook his head far too quickly.

“Because if you did,” Douglas continued, stepping closer. His left hand wandered towards his pocket. “You and I might need to have a few words.”

Keiran leapt back, eyes wide.

“If you attack me, I shall have no choice but to use deadly force.”

“Deadly force my arse. I’m not going to attack you.”

The older girl stepped into his path. Her wand was already drawn.

“Clear off, Richardson. This has got nothing to do with you.”

Douglas stood his ground – in fact, he stepped in front of the office door. Whatever they had planned, it couldn’t have been more than a harmless prank. But it wasn’t harmless. Not really. It put Carolyn in a difficult position – on the warpath too –and made Arthur ask questions with a sad little frown on his face.

Douglas still hadn’t reached for his wand.

“Now, I’m not sure that’s entirely true,” Douglas mused, doing his best to hide his uncertainty. He wasn’t a fighter – not physically. He had given boxing a go when he was young, but never taken to it. He tapped his chin and relied on his words. “Wasn’t it a philosopher who once said those who stand by are complicit in evil doers’ evil doing. I paraphrase, of course – although, I’m not sure he had dung-bombs in mind. Unless you’ve got something worse hidden up your sleeve.”

A flash of amber light streaked past him before Douglas could so much as flinch.

His cheek burned. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kieran flee. The girl shot another hex his way as the older boy pulled something squashed and round from inside his robes.

“Quickly!” the girl hissed.

Ducking out of their way, Douglas found his wand buried in his front pocket. He raised it, pointed it across the corridor.

Two bursts of red split the air. The girl fell, then the boy.

Glowering through his relief, Douglas took a deep breath and looked towards the source of the stunning spells. Any gratitude he felt vanished. Footsteps echoed as Hercules Shipwright jogged towards him, shifting his wand into a holster at his wrist.

Herc plucked the object the boy had been retrieving from the ground.

“Portable Swamp,” he reported. “Lovely.”

“I had that perfectly under control,” Douglas replied tersely. “My way didn’t leave two tripping hazards in the middle of the corridor.”

“Oh, cheer up, Douglas,” Herc said. He didn’t look particularly cheery, even as his smarmy smile returned. He nudged the boy with his toes and tossed Douglas the swamp. “Can’t imagine Carolyn would have enjoyed the swim.”

“That’s Professor Knapp-Shappey to you.”

“Of course.”

“She’s perfectly capable of escaping a swamp.”

“She shouldn’t have to.”

Douglas had to admit, Herc had him there. Even he wouldn’t argue. They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, both lamenting the foul, if not sporadic, attention Carolyn received on account of something she couldn’t help – and which didn’t affect her ability to teach every student she met how to fly without an ounce of trouble. Herc had never been sneered at for having muggle blood, but Douglas knew.

It was as though they had forgotten that such behaviour was as unwarranted as anti-muggle sentiment – not that that had gone away. It was just quieter. Douglas could attest to that.

“Well,” Herc started.

“Any particular reason you’re here?” Douglas asked. He knew perfectly well that Herc didn’t need an excuse, and would devise any.

“Practice schedules,” Herc replied. “We haven’t a team yet, but there’s no harm in planning ahead. Looks like it’s a good thing I did.”

And with that, he knocked on the door to Carolyn’s office. Douglas didn’t hang around to endure an interrogation as to his continued presence.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

The Headmistress’ office was cosy at the best of times. With the governors and half the staff packed inside for the first of the annual meetings, it was positively stifling. Carolyn stayed to the side as the governors poured out, stopping to take a ginger biscuit on the way.

It was a slow process.

The discussion had been the ordinary kind – curriculum, attendance, arrangements for end of year exams and the increased number of students admitted to the Hospital Wing due to mismanaged Transfiguration. Apparently a rash of the older students were trying to replicate Weasley products on the cheap, to their detriment. The Quidditch schedule had been brought up briefly. Underneath it all had been a simmering understanding that the staff were to keep an eye on the students just as carefully as they had always done – not that the governors paid much notice. Unrest always existed when there were so many youths packed into one place.

It was becoming clear, however, that the tight-lipped political correctness of the post-post-war years was drifting closer to the past than the present.

“Now, I have instructed Mr Filch to keep a closer eye on your corridor,” McGonagall said. “I won’t have a repeat of last year – or last week. Such behaviour is completely unacceptable.”

“There’s no need, Headmistress,” Carolyn replied, respectful of the older woman.

“Oh, but there is. The miscreants-”

“I can handle miscreants. Lord knows, I’ve had practice. Mr Filch has responsibilities elsewhere. We can’t add to the load because of a few narrow minded idiots.”

And needless to say, Carolyn didn’t want the man, however foul he could be, scrubbing away the word Squib as though it were something to be ashamed of.

The Headmistress let her be, and Carolyn waited for the room to clear. The last thing she wanted was to be squashed in the spiral staircase leading to the office with a dozen sweaty, snotty-nosed governors. By some gruesome twist of fate, she ended up descending with the worst of them all.

“Ah, you’re still here, are you?” Mr Birling said, crotchety and cheerfully rude. “You weren’t at the last meeting. I’d assumed you’d fallen off your broom.”

“Alas, Mr Birling, I remain whole and hearty.” Were it not for the fact that Mr Birling’s numerous and generous donations kept the Quidditch teams well looked after, Carolyn wouldn’t have been quite so polite. “I assume you’re interested in the upcoming try-outs?”

“Very interested. Brand new line-ups mean more thrilling betting. I’d wager a fair little number on my team if they found the right players.” Mr Birling stepped from the end of the staircase and into the corridor, where students were milling around. “Ghastly creatures,” he said with a modicum of affection. Then louder, “I do look forward to the first match. I expect a good show, or I might not come back to this blasted school.”

~~~

The potion stand Douglas had set up in the corner of the changing room burned merrily. Atop the flames, his cauldron hissed. In all the excitement of getting his broom back, he had forgotten to practice for tomorrows test. He was certain he knew the brew. This just happened to be the first time he had done it.

Nevermind, he thought, as he shielded it behind a locker door and adjusted his gloves. It could be left for a few hours.

He retrieved his Firebolt – first generation – and headed outside.

The pitch shone with a layer of dew, and the air was crisp. Sunlight broke too sharply through the clouds, but it was otherwise decent flying conditions.

Arthur was waiting near the stands. His flying robes were pristine – brand new – and he looked as eager as it was possible to be. He passed his broomstick anxiously from hand to hand, dropping it twice in the time it took Douglas to reach him.

It was difficult to muster any confidence at the sight. Nevertheless, Douglas smiled warmly and led Arthur closer to the centre of the pitch. He stopped three times to alter the fastening on Arthur’s robes. With the boy’s luck, Douglas thought drearily, his outer cloak would whip around mid-flight and suffocate if left untended. And wouldn’t Carolyn be ever so pleased with that result...

“Right, Arthur. This is your basic introduction to Quidditch,” Douglas said when he was mostly sure they were ready. A light breeze had started up. It would make gliding a little easier, if nothing else. “Before we do any drills, before we learn any manoeuvres, before I let you anywhere near a snitch, I need to assess your technique. So, let’s start simple. Follow my lead, and let’s do a few laps around the field.”

“Brilliant. I can do that,” Arthur replied brightly. He didn’t move though. He gripped his broom, bristles down.

Douglas sighed.

“Which means you need to mount your broom.”

“Oh, yeah.”

That was where the problems began. Although there was evidence to suggest Arthur knew _how_ to properly mount a broom – and knowing his mother, Douglas was sure he did – Arthur couldn’t seem to actually perfect it. He was clumsy. That, or he was just uncoordinated. By the time Douglas was confident in Arthur’s stance, he was biting the inside of his cheek and measuring his breaths to avoid stoking the stress building up behind his brow.

“Up in the air now, Arthur. Just push off from the ground – that’s it.”

For all his enthusiasm, Arthur was wobbly in every sense. Not terrible, but unsteady enough that Douglas hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he fell. It didn’t help that Arthur’s usual bubbly demeanour was whittled down to nervous grins and jittering. Arthur kept moving his hands. It was impossible to tell whether his grip was correct. There was no knowing whether the tilting was the right kind of tilting because Arthur didn’t seem to know where he wanted to go.

Then they started doing laps.

While Arthur’s Nimbus was fast, Douglas’ Firebolt was quicker. This turned out to be a good thing as it meant Douglas could swoop in the instant something seemed to be going wrong. It was a thrilling workout – got Douglas back in shape in minutes – but it didn’t raise his spirits any. More often than not, Arthur was just suddenly dropping – or rising in some peculiar cases – at terrifying speed. Or he was rolling into a jerky sort of trick. On top of that, he was getting ahead of himself.

While Douglas’ heart thundered in his throat, anticipating a horrible accident, Arthur asked so many questions it was dizzying.

“So if I see the snitch, but the other team’s Seeker is closer...”

“What if I dive and...”

“I saw a really fancy spin once. What if I-”

“Arthur, you can’t do anything until we’ve got you flying comfortably and safely,” Douglas snapped, an hour into their practice. He softened immediately, as his tone had sent Arthur tumbling the three feet to the ground. “Look, I just need you to... You remember when you first learned to fly? This is going to be more like that, and less like a team practice.”

Arthur’s expression drooped as he righted himself.

“Oh... okay.”

“That’s nothing to be upset about.”

“Hello! Anything I can help with?”

Douglas turned to see Theresa, the Ravenclaw captain, striding towards them. He was relieved to see another familiar face, if only for the chance to stop and breathe for a little while.

“Not if you’re here as a spy,” he said fondly. Although on opposing teams, they had got on well since her appointment, two years ago.

“A spy?” Theresa repeated. “What is there to spy on?” She reached Arthur and helped him to his feet. “Not a secret team I have never heard of? You are formidable, Douglas, but I don’t think the two of you stand much chance of winning the cup alone. And Arthur, you traitor, where’s your Ravenclaw pride?”

“But that’s why I’m here. Douglas is teaching me how to be good enough to make the team at try-outs.” Arthur shot him a guilty glance. “Well... he’s trying...”

“I’m _doing_ ,” Douglas said firmly. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Arthur. It would be silly to expect better after an hour.”

He didn’t say that the thought of Arthur playing at all was downright ludicrous. Theresa caught his eye and it was hard to tell whether she agreed. He didn’t dare ask.

“Well, I would be glad to have you on my team,” she said, clapping Arthur’s shoulder. “All this extra practice – it is a point in your favour.”

“Brilliant.”

“I tell you what you could do,” Douglas interjected. He waited until he had Theresa’s full attention. “An extra pair of eyes wouldn’t go amiss. At least while we’re nailing down Arthur’s basic technique. I can handle training. It’s getting him in the air that’s the problem.”

“And two minds are better than one?”

“Precisely.”

Theresa looked him over appraisingly.

“Hufflepuff won’t thank you for giving me a star Seeker.”

“Arthur’s done a lot more for me than Hufflepuff ever has.”

Once Theresa returned to the pitch with her broom, Douglas’ mood began to pick up. She was a sight to behold in the air – used to darting around, but sturdy enough to take on the worst bludgers. With her help, it was easier to identify where Arthur was going wrong. She amended his mistakes in the air with gentle hands and soft words, as though she were moulding clay. Douglas was a good captain, but he was no teacher.

Theresa demonstrated a particular knack for leadership.

“I am teaching my brother, Maxi, how to fly,” she explained. “He is not yet at Hogwarts, but he is eager... very eager.”

They stayed outside until lunch, popped in for a quick bite, and returned to the pitch more refreshed. As the afternoon wore on, Arthur was doing full laps at the same height as them, at full speed. He still wobbled, but it was progress. Douglas began adding the simplest drills he knew – steering clear of anything Seeker specific in case he confuse Arthur early on. All he needed to be sure of now was that Arthur could remain airborne.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Arthur remarked when they came to a stop in midair, high above the stands.

“What’s that?” Douglas replied.

“What Theresa said, before. About us starting a team that isn’t a house team – just another team. We don’t have to play for the cup. We could just play for fun.”

Douglas nodded and hummed his acknowledgement, but didn’t put much stock in the idea. It was a nice one, but it wasn’t going to do him any good. Not when his only teammate was currently dangling from his broom by the back of his cloak – he hadn’t even seen Arthur slip from the saddle.

~~~

Martin knocked determinedly on Carolyn Knapp-Shappey’s door. The answer came a moment later – sharp and irritable.

After wallowing in self-pity for a while, Martin had decided to take action. He had only returned to the Quidditch pitch at obnoxiously early hours since his humiliating first practice. He had avoided the others. There seemed little point, his mind provided, if he wasn’t even going to be considered for the team. But that wasn’t right.

And if it wasn’t right, he wouldn’t stand for it.

“Mr Crieff, what a delight, as always, to hear you hammering on my door,” Carolyn greeted him. She didn’t look at all pleased.

Martin’s nerve wavered a fraction.

“Professor, I’m here to lodge a complaint.”

“By all means...”

“It’s about Jutteau – a-about his refusal to consider me for the Slytherin team before try-outs have even taken place,” Martin explained. He did his best not to focus on Carolyn’s sharkish eyes or the fact that his voice was cracking, as though it too was realising only now how childish he sounded. “N-now, I know the decision doesn’t lie with you, but surely as Quidditch instructor you can put certain rules in place – e-enforce certain rules. Such as – it should be fair! The try-outs should be a fair fight for all – and that’s not going to happen if you don’t do something about Jutteau’s arbitrary-”

“You realise that getting along with your captain is part of being a team,” Carolyn interrupted. “Do you want me to sanction dissention in the ranks?”

“No.” Martin would keep his mouth shut if he were allowed to fly, no matter how much he despised Jutteau.

“You know, Slytherin house isn’t famous for being fair.”

“That’s not the Slythering house I want to be a part of – a-and I’m not,” Martin replied tersely. He clenched his hands as he felt himself go red in the face. “S-sure, some of us aren’t – I’ll admit, we’ve still got a lot of the bad lot. But we’re not _all_ bad. And for the sake of the rest of my house, I think-”

“Are you here for the rest of your house, or because you want to be on the team?” Carolyn asked.

Martin shuffled his feet and glanced towards the window. He realised, with an awful degree of chagrin, that he was standing halfway between the door and the desk – no man’s land. His pride was a lump in his throat.

“... my house?”

Carolyn sighed and tipped her chin curtly at the chair opposite. As Martin took it, he watched her carefully push all else to the edges of her desk. He had her full attention.

“Martin, you were right to begin with. It’s not up to me who makes the team. If I thought I could get away with it, I would put together teams that would impress recruiters – sell them to the Quidditch League and become a manager... but that’s not how it works. They are student led clubs, led for the enjoyment of the students.”

“But Jutteau...”

“It sounds to me like your problem is not Jutteau, but your ability on a broom.”

Cheeks burning, Martin huffed and crossed his arms.

“How am I supposed to get better if no one will let me try?”

“You could always head down to the pitch,” Carolyn suggested. “If I’m correct – and I hope I am – Douglas Richardson should be teaching my son how to play to Seeker standard. I would rather try-outs don’t end with a great Arthurish stain on the grass. You could join them. I’m sure it would give his ego a disgusting boost.”

Martin rose and shook his head.

“No thanks. I’ll manage.”

He reached the door before Carolyn spoke again.

“I’ll have a word with Jutteau,” she said. “I make no promises, but I can assure you, he’s not allowed to bar you from trying out. The rest is up to you.”

~~~

In spite of himself, Martin did go down to the Quidditch pitch. He didn’t make himself known. Instead, he watched from the stands, gnawing on his resentment and frustration. Above, three figures flew laps and performed simple ducks and rolls. In the middle, Arthur stumbled and fumbled, but laughed when he was upright. Either side of him, Douglas and Theresa flew perfectly, weaving nearer whenever Arthur looked likely to fall.

They seemed to be having a fantastic time.

Martin longed to join them. He was damned if he was going to ask for help.

Not from such a blatant rule-breaker as Douglas Richardson. Sure, he was an admirable flyer – brilliant, in fact – but he had been thrown from his own team. That wasn’t the kind of help Martin wanted at all.

He watched until the sun began to drop towards the horizon. Painted red and purple, the sky turned the figures into silhouettes overhead as they descended. They were still distinct though. Martin remained in the stands as Arthur and Theresa headed towards the castle. He could have walked with them, but didn’t feel like talking.

He searched for Douglas’ strong shouldered shadow, but saw nothing.

Curious, he left the stands.

Martin headed up the steep slope, towards the castle. The last thing he wanted to do was be caught out after dark. Then he saw it – him – Douglas drifting five feet above the ground. His broom carried him in the opposite direction. He was heading towards the forest.

Martin considered following him – catching him in the act. But it was getting too dark to see.

Douglas was already out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Breakfast at Hogwarts was always a jumbled affair, especially on weekdays. Douglas liked to rise as late as possible, so he missed sitting with Phil and Dave – hard-working as they came. In their stead, he made do with the lazy bustle of clinking forks and goblets, and the quiet of his own company. At least it gave him a chance to read the Daily Prophet in peace.

This morning, however, was different.

Douglas looked up from buttering his toast to find Martin Crieff marching up to him. The boy’s uniform was perfectly pressed and tucked in, but the rest of him was in overzealous disarray. Red-faced, he took a seat at the Hufflepuff table.

Douglas raised an eyebrow. Disconcerting as it was to have someone sit directly opposite, it didn’t stop him chomping his toast.

“Well?” Martin said.

“Well... I’m afraid you’ve already lost me,” Douglas replied.

Martin huffed and leaned across the long table, as though sharing a secret. He motioned for Douglas to do the same. Douglas added a splodge of jam to his to meal. Rolling his eyes, Martin continued undeterred.

“I saw you last night.”

Confused, Douglas gave Martin a fraction more of his attention.

“You saw me?”

“Going into the forest.”

Douglas’ eyes widened, but he caught any other reaction before it could show on his face. He had thought he was alone. Theresa had walked Arthur back to the castle with the minimum of questions. Worry flashed through him as he lowered his toast and set his knife aside. Then it was gone. Smiling graciously, he clasped his hands and rested his elbows on the table.

“Did you see me go _into_ the forest?”

Martin blinked, wrong-footed.

“Y-yes...”

“I’m impressed. That sounds like quite a feat considering I didn’t _actually_ go in.”

“What?”

“I didn’t go in,” Douglas reiterated. He could have told Martin to leave, but there was no sense in it- not when he had already proven himself nosier than Carolyn with nothing to keep her occupied. “It may have looked like I was heading that way to the unpractised eye, but in fact I only took a little flight around the edge. I fancied a few more minutes of fresh air.”

Martin leaned back, aghast. His hands pressed flat on the table.

“Y-you didn’t go in?”

“There’s nothing like the sound of the wind through the trees – the air cool on your cheeks. You’d know, of course. Keen flyer, aren’t you? I did notice, when I was Captain.” Douglas stretched out his arms, clicking his fingers. But he didn’t take his eyes off Martin. Truth was, if someone in Hufflepuff had tried out as often as he – and practiced as hard – he would have been mightily impressed, no matter their talent.

“What are you implying?” Martin retorted. Again, his expression twisted and softened with uncertainty as his trap fell apart. He squirmed slightly.

This was a chance, Douglas realised, to get the boy on side and put an end to his interference once and for all.

“I’m just saying – there’s nothing quite as grand as flying,” Douglas said. He grinned and gave a perfunctory little nod. “Yes... I remember my first time. Well, my first time on a _broom,_ that is. I’d flown dozens of times before that in planes – big hulking commercial ones.”

“You’ve flown in an actual aircraft?”

To Douglas’ surprise, Martin’s eyes lit up.

“I am muggleborn, Martin.”

“Yes, o-of course – obviously. No, not obviously, I just meant –w-well, I mean, no one I’ve met in Slytherin has a clue about planes. I’ve tried talking about the relative difference in aerodynamics between aircraft and broomsticks and they’ve never even travelled by-”

“What would you know about aircraft?” Douglas asked, smirking now with befuddled bemusement. It was the kind that tugged involuntarily at his cheeks.

In moments, Martin had leant across the table again – with enthusiasm rather than spite. It had a startling effect on the inches of air between them.

“Dad’s a muggle – an electrician. That’s got nothing to do with planes, b-but he loves his holidays in Spain. Mum thinks it’s silly, but we always take a plane, Martin said, a mile a minute.”I remember seeing the airport for the first time. All those 747s taxiing.”

“ _747s_?” Douglas scoffed.

“Yes... that’s what they’re called.” Martin’s expression clouded.

“I know. I’m just surprised you know that.”

“I wanted to be a pilot when I was six,” Martin said defensively.

He was beginning to retreat, Douglas realised. Anxious not to get on his wrong side again, he grasped for some common thread.

“And now you want to play Quidditch. Very admirable. But, you know, those commercial airliners araen’t nearly as exciting as the fighter jets – some cracking ones they’ve got.”

“And what would you know about fighter jets?”

“Oxford has a few airfields in the general vicinity. If you sit in our back garden long enough, you can see C-17s, Harriers, Tornadoes.”

“Say Tornadoes to anyone here and they’ll tell you they’re fifth in the League,” Martin piped up, with a nervous laugh. He caught Douglas’ eye and hastily looked away. “Look, I’m sorry, I-”

Before Martin could be sorry for anything, an even more unwelcome face dropped down beside him. Herc smiled cheerfully at each of them as Arthur sat opposite.

“Hello, all! What an interesting gathering,” Herc said. “A full house by the looks of it. One of each.”

“Wow, brilliant.” Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff,” Arthur counted them off on his fingers. “Isn’t that great?”

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Douglas asked through his teeth.

“Don’t be like that,” Herc said. The glint in his eye said he knew exactly how little Douglas’ desired his presence, and would therefore be as friendly as possible just to annoy him. It would take a dozen hippogriffs to shift him now.

“I invited him,” Arthur explained brightly. “And Martin’s here too. I’m glad you’re getting alone now. Aren’t you?”

“Actually...” Martin rose awkwardly, bumping into the beautiful Hester MacCauley as he caught his foot on the bottom of the bench. As she sniffed and strode away, he stared after her. Then he shot Douglas an apologetic glance. “Actually, I-I was just going. Things to do... homework... training... you know...”

Douglas watched him retreat to the Slytherin table. He ended up five seats away from Hester, shooting her nervous glances. After a moment, Martin hung his head low. There was no denying, he was a sorry sight. It was almost possible to feel sorry for him.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Herc was telling Arthur when Douglas bothered to listen in. “Douglas was a fine Captain when he was on the team. I for one am actually looking forward to this year’s competition. Maybe I’ll be in with a chance.”

“Think Gryffindor’s in with a chance of winning now I’m no longer a threat?” Douglas asked.

Herc shrugged and took a swig from his goblet.

“I wouldn’t say that. To be honest, Douglas, there’s no way of knowing until I see what Sergeant does with Hufflepuff’s line up. I hear he’s much stricter than you are when it comes to the rules.”

I bent technicalities, not rules.”

“Technically,” Herc replied.

“You’re both really good,” Arthur said slowly, eyes darting between them. “Even Mum says so. But don’t tell her I told you that.”

There was no arguing with that.

Douglas held his tongue as Herc looked far too smug. The last thing he could bear would be Herc winning the Quidditch cup – beaming over it like the smarmy bastard he was. It should have been _his_ by all rights...

As he listened to Her and Arthur chatting about the merits of a meat free diet, Douglas’ eyes wandered back to the Slytherin table. Then he was struck by a flash of inspiration. Fetching a quill from his bag, he scribbled out a note on a napkin:

_Fancy joining us for a training session? No strings attached. After afternoon classes?_

Douglas folded the note into an aeroplane and flicked his wand. It flew gracefully across the hall and hit Martin in the centre of his nose.

~~~

Douglas was pleased to see Martin make his way onto the pitch, broom tucked under his arm, about twenty minutes after he himself led Arthur in some warm-up drills. He was less pleased when, instead of joining them, Martin began his own practice a hundred yards away. There was no doubt in his mind that Martin was watching them. His ginger head turned in their direction too often to be coincidental. He just wasn’t mucking in.

Best leave him to it, Douglas supposed. It wouldn’t do for him to scare Martin away just yet.

As the hours wore on, Arthur got only slightly better. He could follow simple instructions now that he was steadier on his broom, but he was nowhere near ready to play. Douglas tailed him as they flew lap after lap – ducking in close and tapping the Nimbus’ bristles. It was meant to persuade Arthur to dodge obstacles and recover quickly.

It didn’t.

Each time, Arthur veered off course. In a real game, he would lose the snitch every time.

His one saving grace was his professionalism – if it could be called that. To Douglas’ pleasant surprise, Arthur approached the drills with a regimented obedience this time. It had been drilled into his mother, no doubt. To every mistake, he brought a boundless enthusiasm and eagerness to try again.

“That’s it, Arthur. Back up to speed!”

“Can we use the balls next time?”

“Perhaps...”

All the while, Douglas kept one eye on Martin. The boy was performing basic Chaser drills at a relatively low speed. He had a stand-in Quaffle – just a football really – and was doing his best to toss it through the hoops and catch it before it hit the ground. When he wasn’t fumbling, he was missing the posts completely. He would have done better, Douglas thought, to stop trying to be so exact.

Anyone would think Martin was trying to match the diagrams in Quidditch Weekly. He hadn’t done a single unpredictable thing all afternoon – except practice a dodge that launched him right over the end of his broom.

His head snapped towards them as he dangled from the handle.

About half an hour before Douglas was planning on calling it a day, Arthur slowed and sank to the ground. He motioned for Douglas to follow him.

“Getting tired?”

“No, I just thought – there aren’t many clouds,” Arthur said, half-whispering.

Douglas frowned.

“Yes...”

“And there’s not much wind.”

“So what you’re saying is...”

Arthur’s face turned a funny pink colour, and he looked around the pitch for eavesdroppers.

“I know Mum said we shouldn’t, but I really think we should, and today seems like a good chance. Everyone else will be at dinner soon, so-”

“I see.” Douglas cut him off. He understood why it was so important to Arthur – more than an adventure. “I suppose we could take a look – just a look, mind you. An aerial view, so to speak. We’re not nearly prepared enough right now to pull off a proper hunt.”

They waited until Martin was otherwise occupied before sneaking off. The crossbeams beneath the stands offered a useful cluster of criss-crossing shadows. It was how Douglas had slipped away the night before. He found a thrill in the act. Contrary to what he had told Martin, he _had_ been scouring the tree-line for signs of immediate danger. Someone who wanted to search for lost tings in the forest – as Arthur longed to do – needed first to know that they wouldn’t be trampled or torn apart. No one, except perhaps Hagrid, knew what really lay beyond though.

The past few years, there had been no real rush to venture forth. Now, following the awful summer Arthur had had, there was a sense of urgency where the forest was concerned. His parents had been separated for while now, but the divorce was only recently finalised.

And the only thing of real worth that Carolyn had won from the agonising court sessions may or may not have lain in pieces somewhere amidst the trees.

Douglas understood perfectly why Arthur was so desperate to locate it.

Careful not to rise too high, or drift too far across the canopy, Douglas led the way into the sky. They moved slowly. Here, at the edge of the forest, he could see through the branches. Further in, it was so thick he saw nothing but darkness, growing deeper inch by inch.

“No further that this,” Douglas instructed.

“Right-o!”

From one deep pocket, Douglas pulled a sketched map of what little of the forest they had already seen. He unfolded it and memorised the blank area he planned to focus on now. In his other pocket, he kept a small, shiny telescope that folded down into a cylindrical metal tube. Without thinking, Douglas tossed it to Arthur.

Arthur fumbled and stuck out the wrong arm.

The telescope fell towards the trees – a single, spinning glint of sunlight. Douglas cursed and tilted his broom down-

A gust of cold air tore past him as a blur swooped down and snatched the telescope from the air. In seconds, the flyer looped around and swung to a stop in front of them, telescope in hand. He blocked their path.

Douglas stared.

“Wow!” Arthur exclaimed.

“I should have known you were up to no good,” Martin snapped. He looked indignantly between them, one hand on his broom. “Don’t want to go into the forest – of course you do. Well, I can’t let you. It’s against the rules – it’s _dangerous_. I may not be a prefect, but I-”

“How far away were you when Arthur dropped that?” Douglas asked abruptly.

“About ten metres,” Martin replied. “A-and that’s beside the point, I-”

“What position are you trying out for?”

“Chaser. What does that have to do with anything?”

Douglas didn’t answer right away. He was too busy trailing his eyes from Martin’s head of tussled hair to his toes, one set propped above the bristles on his broom. Hs stance wasn’t textbook – it was steady though. His grip was too low by League standards, but it was strong – knuckles white. The duck and roll as he had come to a stop would throw off any Bludger, and he had just executed a flawless catch from ten metres away. His eyesight must have been magnificent.

Like the sun breaking over a new dawn, Douglas caught a ray of inspiration.

Martin’s problem wasn’t a lack of talent – it was a lack of confidence and a refusal to deviate from the rulebook.

Filed with righteous, lawful indignation, and probably wounded pride at being ignored, Martin was a decent flyer.

He had potential.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Martin demanded.

“I think you’d make a better Seeker,” Douglas replied. He watched shock dance across Martin’s expression and hurried on. “In fact, with some proper training – from someone like me – you could be one of the best Seekers Slytherin’s ever had. They get so bogged down in recruiting the biggest boys they can, but _you_... Jutteau would have to be a bigger fool that I think he is not to choose you.”

Martin gaped. The hand still clutching the telescope was held aloft. Then he snapped out of his trance.

“I don’t want your help.”

“You want on the Slytherin team, don’t you? I can tell you now, Martin, you’re no Chaser, but as a Seeker-”

“I-I’m not a Seeker,” Martin insisted. As he did, he wobbled slightly before regaining his balance. It only increased his frustration. “See!”

“Martin, Martin – trust me. I would know,” Douglas said. He drifted nearer, motioning Arthur to stay where he was. “I’ve captained whole teams and I can promise, hand on heart, I would have paid good money to have you in Hufflepuff. You have potential – you can join Arthur over the next few weeks. It’s not like I’m not already training one Seeker. Let me tap into that innate skill.”

Martin shook his head.

“You’ve got me all wrong.”

“I can count on my hand the people who could have caught that telescope – Charlie Weasley, Potter, Krum – that Ukranian witch playing for the Wasps – and you.” It was stretching the truth a bit, but it was worth it for the uncertain light that entered Martin’s eyes. As his stance grew less defensive, Douglas continued. “Let me train you – show you my way.”

“Why? What’s in it for you?”

“I’d rather Slytherin won the cup than let it go to Gryffindor. The last thing Hercules Shipwright needs is another reason to gloat. He already thinks he’s the best thing to happen to the skies since rainbows.”

“He’s nicking your act,” Martin muttered. Then he frowned. He stared. He looked down at the telescope and gulped. Then he met Douglas’ gaze, the forest forgotten. He might have even forgotten he was floating in midair. He tossed the telescope, watching as Douglas caught it.

“You’ll show me how to be a Seeker – get me on the team?”

“Put it this way,” Douglas said. “One horse in Slytherin, another in Ravenclaw... How could I possibly lose? Perhaps the Quidditch League will even get me in to train professionals. Wouldn’t that be a delightful stroke of luck?”

He waited, silence stretching out.

Then Martin nodded and stuck out his hand.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... another chapter for your enjoyment.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“So am I to assume you’re enjoying teaching Quidditch to underachievers, Douglas? Arthr was forced upon you, but Martin? Nothing of the sort.” Carolyn was unpleasantly cheery as she walked around the edge of the courtyard she used to teach First Years how to fly.

In the centre, twenty eleven year olds flailed and hung limply a foot off the ground. Their chatter filled the air with an active buzz, like a group of secretive bees who had forgotten their wings. Carolyn nudged one girl’s broom upwards, balancing it out, and continued, “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Douglas rolled his eyes and shifted the heavy weight in his arms. He carried the padding Carolyn intended to add to the brooms that weren’t quite suited to their frightened riders, and the colours bibs that would divide them into teams. Trailing behind her, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of sap he had become that he was willing to slave away for her just to get a taste of the Quidditch season. Then again, he had been assisting her as long as he had known Arthur – for his own benefit and then for the feeling of superiority that came with insight.

“Martin has potential, Carolyn. Helping him is my good deed for the year. My soul is rather beautiful like that. He didn’t even have to ask.”

“And it’s a favour waiting to be chipped in.”

“Perhaps,” Douglas replied. He stopped so she could take two ankle braces for the boy whose legs didn’t seem to want to stay put. “You were the one who said this could influence my future.”

“I didn’t intend for you to do quite so well. At this rate, you’ll be after my job as well,” Carolyn said.

Douglas grinned. “Nonsense.” Then he remembered why he had been so eager to speak to her – not complaining once that his free period had been taken up. “Carolyn, I’m the last person to sell myself short, but there’s only so much I can do. You need to pull some strings.”

“I have spoken to Jutteau at Martin’s request,” Carolyn said. She stopped and fixed him with a steely stare. “”What I will not do is put Martin on the team regardless of what his captain thinks. I can’t be seen to abet cheating. Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?”

Mood clouding, Douglas didn’t answer. He hefted his cargo onto the foot of a nearby pillar and tried not to glare enviously at the First Years. They had no idea what kind of joy lay ahead of them.

“Speaking of lessons learned,” Carolyn continued as she made her way through the middle of a cluster of boys and girls drifting closer together. She pushed them apart before they could collide. “Care to explain why you haven’t been attending classes?”

“I _have_ been attending class!” Douglas exclaimed.

Carolyn raised an eyebrow and looked sternly back at him, lips a thin line.

“I know, but you might as well not have gone at all. Charms, Potions, Transfiguration and History of Magic – and yet your homework might as well have been copied from the textbook. No imagination at all. I thought you wanted to do well in your NEWTs.”

“I thought you didn’t care so long as I mop the changing rooms and wash the communal gear.”

“I don’t,” Carolyn replied curtly. She turned her back on him, locating the hefty case where the four balls were kept.

Douglas stood back, leaning against a pillar as the two Bludgers rattled against their chains. Around them, the First Years gasped and fell to the ground in excitement. It faded quickly when Carolyn opened a compartment in the lid and took a pile a papers.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the papers into Douglas’ hands. “An easy job for you when we’re done here. The coloured pages are sign-up sheets for try-outs later this months. They are to be distributed between the houses and posted in the Entrance Hall. The white pages are for Hercules. Be a dear, in as much as you’re capable, and pass them along.”

“May I ask what Hercules has done to earn such preferential treatment?”

“He had the initiative to bring me schedules and verify the training regimes he’s put together. The lad’s got terrible taste in music and refuses to shut up about it, but at least asks for advice which is more than I can say for some,” Carolyn said. Her cheeks were faintly pink, but weath simmered just beneath the veneer of polite indifference. “Some captains don’t leave their planning to the last minute and thrive on chaos, Douglas.”

Douglas scoffed and scanned the carefully drawn up game plans at the top of the pile. He knew perfectly well why Herc insisted on being such a swot when it came to Quidditch – other than his general superiority complex, that was. Any excuse to pester Carolyn, even if their meetings did tend to end in pointless bickering, or Carolyn nodding without listening as he waffled on and on about something he thought he was an expert in. The prospect had once filled Douglas with hysterical glee – trust Herc to become so desperately keen on a _teacher_ – then horror as Carolyn didn’t immediately set him straight.

Now, he could only watch them with concern.

“If you’re sure it’s wise... these regimes,” he said.

Carolyn’s eyes narrowed.

“Just hand them over, Douglas. You don’t have to shake his hand.”

Douglas nodded and stepped back to allow her better access to the First Years.

It was her decision. He wouldn’t say a word – not really. She didn’t need to hear that her standing with the governors was delicate at best. She knew perfectly well already that their opinions of her usefulness could swing suddenly in the other direction... even if there was technically nothing wrong with misplaced affection.

After all, it wasn’t as though she were _old_ , by any means. But she was old enough to have a Fourth Year son. And while age gaps were fine when both parties were consenting adults, capable of knowing what they wanted... Herc _was_ an adult, technically, and one who made a point of advertising just how clearly he knew what he wanted. If Carolyn weren’t so coy about the whole thing... so averse to the idea of emotions in any sense...

It was probably the only thing keeping her safe.

No, Douglas worried more for the fact that he _knew_ Herc – had known him since they were eleven years old. They had been inseparable for years. The thought that he might change his mind... hurt Carolyn... and put her job at risk too...

Those were the sorts of things Douglas would rather not consider. So he didn’t.

When it was time for lunch, and most of the school were packed into the Great Hall or milling around the Entrance Hall, Douglas made his way to the notice board beside the four house hour glasses. He hummed under his breath as he pinned one for each house up, the rest tucked beneath his arm.

A tap on his shoulder drew his attention away. It was a sharp clip, really – the end of Mr Birling’s walking stick.

“Dougie, my boy, not demoted to House Elf are you?”

“I do my bit, sir. Once a Quidditch player, always loyal to the cause,” Douglas replied. He bounced on his heels, straining for false cheer.

Mr Birling was a quaint old man with enough bluster for an entire brass band. He was also bright eyed and plumy enough that Douglas suspected he had already broken open a bottle of something sweet and strong.

“Yes, yes – an awful shame it was, seeing his shafted,” he said mournfully. Then he scoffed. “A right kick in the face. Well, I’m off to speak to that horrible woman. You’re not busy, are you? I thought I might invite you for a snifter.”

Invite him to wait on him hand and foot, Douglas thought, plastering on a smile. One good thing to come from being tossed was that he no longer had to endure captains meetings with Hogwarts’ most Quidditch crazed governor.

“I’m afraid Professor Flitwick might not be pleased if I miss Charms,” Douglas said. “And I still need to hand these out.” He raised the sign-up sheets. As he did, he saw Herc ambling down the grand staircase, Chaser Linda Fairbairn at his side. For once, it was a welcome sight. “Ah, there he is! Just the man I was looking for.”

Mr Birling’s smile dropped as Herc altered his course.

“Yes, well – best be getting on.”

For some reason, My Birling wasn’t quite as keen on Herc as the rest of them. In fact, he was almost human when they were forced to interact. As Mr Birling disappeared among the students, Herc arrived, hands in his pockets, a swing in his stride. His expression was tinted with curiosity. However, Linda elbowed past him, eyes wide and eager.

“Are those the sign-up sheets?”

“Yes. You can take yours up to your common room if you like.”

Linda took the red sheets.

“Excellent. My name’ll be top of the list.”

“I’ve told you before, you don’t need to try out,” Herc sighed. “You’ve been Chaser for three years already. I’m happy to keep you.”

“Are you saying I need a leg up?” Linda turned on him in a flash, stern and strict, the freckles on her nose wrinkling in distaste.

Herc paled slightly.

“No, I’m saying you’re good enough-”

“Then I’ll try out, fair and square, just like everyone else. Gryffindor teams have never been built on cheating or favouritism. I’ll take these up.”

With that, Linda left them.

“And these are for you,” Douglas said, handing Herc his regimes while he was still flustering over Linda’s departure. “Distributed with love – not sighed with any, I’m afraid.”

“Gosh, that’s a lot of red ink,” Herc muttered. He flicked through the pages. Nevertheless, his cheeks pulled into a smile that made Douglas want to toss him off the Astronomy Tower. Or take a picture. Whichever was funnier.

Then Herc got that look in his eye that said he thought he was about to say something useful.

“You know, Douglas, there’d be no harm in speaking to Sergeant – sharing ideas. It might even make the team stronger, what with your experience.”

“Sabotage won’t help you win,” Douglas replied.

“My team won’t need anything of the sort,” Herc aid. He leaned against the notice board, one hand splayed over Slytherin’s sign-up sheet. “Why must you assume I’m out to get you? I’ve seen how good last year’s line-up was under your instruction. Sergeant could learn a few things. Honestly, there was no need to resort to-”

But Douglas didn’t hear what Herc thought he had resorted to before his final, fatal match.

They were interrupted as Jutteau, a fellow seventh year, strode between them to reach the notice board.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Jutteau’s faux manners melted away when he saw where Herc’s hand was. “I would suggest, Shipwright, that you move yourself a few inches that way – a little further – ah, perfect. A quill!”

The demand was accompanied by his palm, open and waggling behind him. One of his friends handed him a feathered quill.

Over his shoulder, Douglas caught Herc’s eye. They shared a pointed frown – deceptively light-hearted on Herc’s part – and stepped back.

“Been demoted?” Douglas inquired.

Jutteau paused and shot him an irritable glance.

“I’m sorry?”

“Indeed – my mistake, I wasn’t clear enough. Am I to assume you’re _not_ signing up for your own team try-outs?”

“It would certainly set the tone,” Herc added.

“Don’t be silly.” Jutteau was about to turn his back when he seemed to notice, for the first time, the sheets in Douglas’ arms. His expression brightened, without any of the warmth it deserved, and he drawled, “Ah, there they are. I’ll take them off your hands in a moment.”

For all that he complained, Douglas was glad that Herc remained at his side while Jutteau scribbled notes on the sign-up sheet. It made standing in judgement all the more sociable. After a moment, he realised that Jutteau was adding rules and limitations to Slytherin’s formerly blank page.

“Hello, all!” Martin appeared from inside the Great Hall. Apart from a small nod from Douglas, he went unacknowledged. That didn’t stop him talking. “Oh, are those the sign-up sheets? I’m next in line – no cuts!”

“So you’re running errands now?” Jutteau asked, without taking his eyes from his task. “You’d think Knapp-Shappey would just hire a House Elf to do the grunt work... or do it herself. I suppose, if she is not capable-”

“Hiliarious,” Douglas drawled, cutting him off. He bristled all the same.

“I joke –I joke,” Jutteau said.

“I believe I missed the punch line.” Herc’s stance shifted ever so slightly.

“I meant no harm.”

“What’s going on?” Martin asked, looking lost as he hovered between them.

“I only say, because it seems like such a long way to fall, Richardson, from so high above our heads,” Jutteau continued. He returned the quill to its owner and turned back to them with a twisted smirk. “But perhaps I am wrong – I do not know. It is my luck that I have never had to stoop so low. It’s not your fault. After all, your upbringing-”

“What about it?” Douglas demanded.

“You live with muggles, do you not?”

“If by _live with_ you mean _am related to_.”

“Yes, yes, see it is my understanding that while muggles know nothing about Quidditch, or proper flight, they are well suited to working with their hands, in the filth – scrubbing, and fiddling with their eckeltricity, feet on the ground.” Jutteau flicked the sheets Douglas still held, and turned his nose up at the mud and broomstick polish still smudged on his wrists. “Why it’s probably for the best.”

“I’m sure we haven’t the faintest clue what you mean,” Herc tried to interject.

Douglas pushed him back before he could step forward. His chest wanted to heave, but he was busy fighting a scowl. He knew perfectly well what Jutteau was implying. It wasn’t the first time.

“How _dare_ you-”

“What I mean to say is, it is better to learn now that you’re just not made for the sport – not suited at all – before you pursue it more seriously,” Jutteau said brightly. “No, no, you belong here on the ground. It suits you. And you know what they say – those you _can’t_ , why they can only _teach_. At least you’d be more useful than that Squib they’ve got-”

Herc’s wand was drawn in seconds.

Sign-up sheets scattered the cobblestones as Douglas snarled and reached for his own.

There was a flash and a bang – blinding and filling Douglas’ mouth with smoke. Something heavy collided with him, knocking him off his feet. When he opened his eyes, it wasn’t Herc who had shut Jutteau up. His curse had struck the ceiling above as Martin had shoved him off balance.

Martin’s want was drawn, but he didn’t cast any spells.

Red in the face, bag hitting the ground, Martin clenched his fists and swung for Jutteau. Jutteau was so surprised that he didn’t dodge quickly enough. Martin’s punch glanced off his chin, knocking them both sideways.

Then all hell broke loose.

Douglas was so stunned he couldn’t stop it. By the time he was on his feet, Martin was flat on the ground.

~~~

Martin woke, bleary eyed, in the Hospital Wing. He had been there enough times to recognise the white curtains and the browning ceiling. What he wasn’t used to seeing were Douglas Richardson beside his bedside cabinet, a plate of biscuits on his lap, and Arthur Shappey cross-legged at the end of his bed with a dozen French fancies.

“Um...”

“Finally, you’re up. I was beginning to get apocalyptically bored,” Douglas said. He kicked his feet up onto the bed and ate a biscuit. “You’ve been asleep for four months, you know.”

Martin shot upright.

“ _What?_ H-how can I-”

“No, you haven’t been asleep for four months. _Douglas_ ,” Arthur scolded him. He put the plate of fancies on Martin’s lap. “It’s only been an afternoon. And we haven’t been here the whole time. We went to lessons, and dinner. See – we brought you some, in case you were hungry.”

Douglas smirked and looked at something only he could see, as though he were daydreaming. It meant he didn’t see Martin scowling. Martin’s irritation lasted only a moment, until his chest twinged.

“Ow... what happened?”

“You planted one hell of a punch on Jutteau – at least, you tried,” Douglas explained, hands folded over his knee. “Of course, he flattened you. Got a nasty stinging hex, that one.”

Martin groaned and flopped back, hands over his eyes.

“Oh no... What have I done? They’ll never let me on the team now.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You were terribly heroic,” Douglas said heartily. If Martin wasn’t mistaken, he was enjoying himself. “I’ve been regaling Arthur with the details for hours.”

“It was brilliant of you to stand up for Douglas,” Arthur said, nodding so enthusiastically it made the bed bounce. “Sometimes, the way people talk about muggleborns, it’s just – just – it’s not brilliant at all. It’s not even alright.”

Martin fidgeted uncomfortably. His face warmed with embarrassment as he picked at his thin blanket.

“Well, he was also talking about-”

He had intended saying that Jutteau had been insulting Squibs as well as muggleborns, but Douglas shook his head, short and sharp. He caught Martin’s eye. It was very clear that Arthur was not to be told what Jutteau had been about to say about his mother. Martin thought he ought to know, just for a moment. Then he looked away and saw Douglas’ shoulders sag from the corner of his eye.

“So... um...” Martin grasped for something to say. He settled for, “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you company,” Arthur replied matter-of-factly.

“We thought you might like a little cake and company to get you back to strength. Perhaps even some gossip,” Douglas said. “On which note – Jutteau is having a few strong words thrown in his direction... as is Herc, actually. Apparently using magic in the corridors is still against the rules, no matter how noble the intention. Especially in front of a hall full of teachers.”

That was that then, Martin supposed.

For a while, Martin sat bewildered in his bed, taking part in idle conversation, about classes, and Hogsmeade, and surprisingly enough the latest issue of Witch Weekly. What he couldn’t quite work out was at which point the boys either side of him had decided they were friends.

He supposed it was just like him to sleep through something as important as that.

“Tell me what’s so important about the forest,” Martin said, when he worked up the nerve. Douglas and Arthur exchanged brief, charged glances. It didn’t fool him. “Come on. I’m not stupid. It’s got to be something good if you’re so desperate to go in.”

“We only think it might be good,” Arthur said, and then clamped his mouth shut.

“Arthur,” Douglas warned him.

Martin sat up properly and glared.

“No, come on. I won’t tell.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I owe you something for taking me on,” Martin insisted. He was stunned to find he meant it. “Please. It’s been driving me mad not knowing.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Douglas rose, pulled the curtains shut around the bed, and dragged his chair as close to it as he could. He leant on the mattress. Arthur shuffled nearer, displacing the biscuits, and Martin was boxed in. When Douglas spoke, it was in a hushed whisper that captured Martin’s imagination immediately.

“Tell me what you know about a rumour involving GERTI.”

Martin blinked.

“Literally nothing. Not Gertie Cuckold from-”

“No, no... _listen_. I wouldn’t expect you to know because it happened before even I came to Hogwarts,” Douglas explained. He looked to Arthur, who was enraptured, and asked, “Should I tell it?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Douglas nodded to himself. Then he motioned for Martin to lean in closer. He continued in the same stage whisper as before. With only the early evening light fading from his face, he looked quite the storyteller.

Martin watched his every movement.

“See, Carolyn has worked here a long time, but before that she took some breaks from the Wizarding World. She travelled when she was younger,” Douglas said. “A young woman – a Squib educated at Hogwarts – she wondered if the world outside our own could offer her more. Working at her mother’s sweet shop was never enough. It couldn’t compete with Honeyduke’s, anyway. What she really loved was flying. So she sound an airline, took up work as a stewardess, and that was that.”

“Really? That’s incredible.”

“Shush, Martin! It didn’t last long. Carolyn met a muggle man named Gordon, Arthur’s father. He was a pilot – owned his own jet. They were moderately happy.”

“I don’t think they were,” Arthur said.

“For the sake of the story, let’s imagine they _believed_ they were,” Douglas replied. “The marriage didn’t last, but they didn’t end things officially, for the sake of their son. Unhappy with the muggle world, Carolyn returned to Hogwarts – the one place she flourished. Gordon stayed away. I’ve never met the man, so I can’t speak ill of him, but... what I do know is that he wanted back everything he gave. This included the jet that Carolyn had taken to get back to Scotland.”

“GERTI,” Martin breathed, thrilled with understanding.

“She was brilliant,” Arthur told him.

“A Lockheed-McDonnel,” Douglas continued. He leaned closer. “Notoriously terrible in the air. So when the pilots Gordon hired to fly GERTI home plotted a course over Hogwarts – no, wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“The courts were first,” Arthur said.

“Of course, the courts. Well, the courts decided that if Gordon was keeping the house and the money, and if Carolyn wanted the plane when the divorce was finalised, she could keep it. And Carolyn _wanted_ that plane. She wanted it and refused to send it home.”

“And?”

“And so Gordon sent him pilots to steal it back. In the fashion of thieves everywhere, they chose to leave the beaten track... plot a course over what they believed was empty highlands.”

“That’s against regulations though. It must be.”

Douglas raised his hand to silence him.

“Hogwarts is no friend to technology – especially not one with terrible handling. The last anyone saw of GERTI was the sudden descent over the forest... the smoke rising up until there was nothing... the Forbidden Forest swallowed her up.”

“See, that’s why we need to go in,” Arthur said sharply.

“To find your plane?” Martin asked. He looked to Douglas.

Douglas shook his head.

“The odd thing,” he said, “Is that Arthur’s father has been contacting Carolyn every year since, demanding his plane back. He knows it crashed – he knows about Hogwarts, though he can’t tell anyone because of the Statute of Secrecy – but he’s still writing. He’s even threatened to get lawyers involved which leads us to believe there’s something valuable on board. If there’s anything left of the plane, of course, which there must be.”

Martin’s head span as he looked from one serious face to the other. He gripped his sheets as chills raced down his spine.

“So you’re trying to find treasure that might not exist?”

“And help Mum,” Arthur said. “Dad’s lawyers were horrible. He’ll upset her again if he had to wait much longer.”

It was as though a door opened up inside Martin’s head. He had no idea what lay on the other side – other than the realisation that the boys gathered around him weren’t the criminals he had assumed them to be. He had no time to wonder, however, before the curtains around his bed were torn open.

“Out! Both of you!” Madam Pomfrey snapped, ushering Arthur from the bed. “How is he supposed to rest with you miscreants talking his ears off. Out! Out!”


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

The day of the Quidditch try-outs arrived with all the fanfare expected of it. Anticipation gripped the student body. Even those who weren’t taking part stayed up late the night before with their friends, talking animatedly and handing out advice. Martin abandoned the Slytherin common room and the soothing green balm of torchlight against the lake when the noise grew too loud. He tried to rest, but in the end he buried himself under the covers with a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages.

Come morning, he dressed in his flying robes, tucked his broom under his arm, and headed to breakfast long before anyone else was awake.

The past few weeks had been some of the best of his life. Lessons were going well, and every spare hour was spent on the pitch, with Douglas and Arthur. They trained long and hard. It was different to what Martin was used to – less disciplined.

Of course, he fought Douglas at every turn. They _had_ to practice the drills specified in the _book_. There was a reason certain moves had been committed to ink. And learning to be a Seeker when he had dedicated his life to Chasing was like starting from scratch. He had to lean the foundations of the position – the protocol – whatever it took to reach professional standard. Jutteau wouldn’t be impressed by fancy flying.

Douglas disagreed.

He wanted Martin to relax – learn the drills, perhaps, but _react_ instead of planning ahead.

It went against everything Martin believed in. But it was nice to have the attention – to fly with Douglas, a talented captain in his time, and Arthur, who struggled to keep up but brought so much enthusiasm it was impossible not to have fun. In fact, Arthur’s haphazard approach to flying meant that Martin often had no _choice_ but to fling himself about, hanging onto his broom by whatever means possible.

“There you go!” Douglas had yelled as he tossed enchanted oranges at him from afar. “Stpo thinking so hard, Martin. You opponents aren’t going to fly in formation – they’ll be hitting Bludgers at you and trying to knock you off your broom. The key to success is to be unpredictable!”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Martin still didn’t think he was good enough to be anything _but_ unpredictable.

Still, he sat alone at the Slytherin table until the seat opposite was filled. He looked up to find Douglas beaming at him, annoyingly chirpy considering he couldn’t have been up for more than twenty minutes. Arthur was beside him, dressed in blue.

“When’s your try-out?” Martin asked.

“After lunch,” Arthur replied, nabbing a bread roll. “But Douglas thinks I should practice right up until then – except for when we come to see you, that is.”

“Y-you’re coming to see my try-out?”

“Of course we are,” Douglas replied. “You don’t think I put in all that work just to toss you on the dung heap, do you? I’ll be in the front row. Not cheering, mind you, but I’ll be nodding supportively and whispering horrible things about your competitors in Jutteau’s ear. If you’re lucky, I might even confound one-”

“ _Douglas!”_

“I’m _joking_ , Martin. Don’t worry. I have faith in you.”

“Good... w-well, good... good.” Martin suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. He pushed his bacon around his plate with his fork and listened to Douglas and Arthur bicker gently across from him.

Around them, the rest of Slytherin house chatted and milled around, whispering eagerly about the try-outs. He wished they would stop. Martin glanced from one to the next – from Hester MacCauley, glancing appreciatively at Douglas as she passed, to the group of First Years debating whether there were enough school brooms to go around, up to the staff table where Slughorn was paying them no attention at all.

After a while, Theresa passed by.

“Chin in, Martin,” she called, but didn’t stop to talk.

Martin didn’t check his watch. He knew in his gut when it was time to leave. His broom felt heavier than before when he balanced it over one shoulder. Heading from the Great Hall, he glanced up at the enchanted ceiling. The sky was bright, without a cloud to be seen. An arm slung over his shoulder alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone.

“You’ll be brilliant,” Arthur assured him, squeezing his shoulders.

“With my tuition, I’ll be surprised if you’re not,” Douglas added.

They reached the Quidditch pitch while there were still only a few students heading down in thin streams. Most of the school wasn’t interested in Slytherin try-outs, and most of Slytherin wasn’t bothering to try-out, but Martin still felt as though the eyes of the world were on his back. He left the others to duck into the changing rooms for a moment. There was nothing wrong with his robes, or his broom, but he needed to summon his confidence before he headed out in front of even the smallest audience.

Four times... four times he had been here, and four times he had failed.

Going for Seeker was only a small adjustment. It was something about _him_ , Martin had thought more than once – something about him that people didn’t like, or which predisposed him towards failure. He knew the book inside out. There was no reason he shouldn’t do well except for some inherent lack of talent.

Martin shook his head and gripped his broom’s handle.

For weeks now, Douglas had told him over and over again that there was nothing wrong with _him_. It shouldn’t have meant more than anyone else’s praise, but for some reason when Douglas said it, it felt _real_.

Martin headed back outside, where the air was filled with a low murmur. The stands were sparsely filled. As he made his way around the grass, he saw Jutteau and his friends sitting halfway up. Douglas and Arthur were closer to the ground. They were deep in conversation, Arthur looking unusually serious.

“Everything alright?” Martin asked.

“Perfect,” Douglas said. “Ready to impress?”

“Yeah, yeah – yeah, of course I am – yeah.”

“Anything you say four times has to be true.”

Martin held his tongue, cheeks burning as he fidgeted. Behind him, brooms were already in the air, whizzing about.

None of them spoke for a moment. Then Jutteau called for everyone who was trying-out to line up and wait to be called. Martin said goodbye to the others and made his way across the pitch. His chest felt like bars had closed around it. His heart was thundering. Excitement fizzled through him but it was drowned out by sheer terror. There was nothing he could do, however. He was one of the first names on the sign-up sheet.

~~~

As soon as Martin was out of sight, marching across the pitch like a man sent to the gallows, Arthur grabbed Douglas by the arm and pulled him aside.

“I really need to talk to you,” Arthur whispered, loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Do you _really_ think now’s the time?” Douglas asked. He didn’t put up a fight, but he tried to keep the pitch in his sights until Arthur pulled him into the shadows beneath the stands. “Arthur, Martin’s going up any minute now.”

“I know.”

“So what’s so important?”

Arthur didn’t answer at first. He released Douglas and picked at his drooping blue sleeves. Unlike when he tried to keep secrets, he wasn’t pink. His face was a damning pallor and he couldn’t seem to stop staring at the ground.

“Arthur...”

“I don’t think I should try out,” Arthur blurted.

Douglas stared at him. Outside, scattered cheering filled the air. It didn’t hold his attention.

“What do you mean you don’t want – Arthur, we’ve been practicing for weeks!” he exclaimed. “Your mother _forced_ me to tutor you. You _both_ said it’s all you ever wanted. Don’t tell me your confidence is waning for the first time in your life-”

“No, it’s not my confidence,” Arthur insisted. He raised his hands in surrender and shuffled his feet. Then he scratched at the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. “It’s just... I’ve been looking at the other people trying out-”

“This is Slytherin. They always try and recruit big, hulking-”

“N-no, not just Slytherin. I’ve been talking to Theresa as well, about Ravenclaw, and everyone trying out is... well, you’ve seen them,” Arthur said. Outside, the smattering of a crowd booed loudly. Neither of them reacted, although Arthur jumped slightly. “Thing is, Douglas... I’m not anything like any of them.”

Douglas’ heart lurched. He schooled his expression and gripped Arthur’s shoulders.

“Arthur, you’re fine”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you?”

“I _do_ , Douglas, but we both know I’m not _like_ the others. As in, I’m not _good_. That’s why you’ve had to teach me, and even when we were practicing Martin was better. He sort of looks like he could play Quidditch, if he stopped being so nervous. But I don’t – I can’t even stay on my broom if I go too fast.”

Douglas shook his head. Footsteps echoed overhead, shaking the stands. There had to be something he could do. Carolyn would kill him if she thought he had let Arthur down. More importantly, he didn’t think he could face the weight of shame if he had to look at Arthur every day for the rest of the year and know he had let him down again.

“Arthur, look me in the eye and listen-”

Arthur shook his head and stepped out of reach.

“It’s nothing to do with you, Douglas,” he said, perceptively. “It’s just _me_... I don’t want to... It’s better this way. See, I don’t have to waste everyone’s time, and no one except you, and Martin, and Theresa ever know that I didn’t try. Because I came all the way here, and I dressed up, and I... You know? I’ll tell Mum it was all me. She can’t be mad when you worked so hard – and definitely not when Martin gets the position.”

Arguments sticking in his throat, Douglas stared at Arthur as another shout sounded from outside the stands. He was thinking quickly, trying to find a solution... but there wasn’t one, really. Arthur might not admit it was self-esteem, but it was _obviously_ that. It was only his own nerve letting him down. Try as he might, Douglas couldn’t find a solution to that on the spot... he wasn’t sure he could fix it before the afternoon rolled around.

“It’s your decision,” Douglas said slowly, “But if you ask me-”

Before he could finish, Martin burst from between the tall beams. He came at a run, feet pounding, broom swinging from one hand, as if he had flown right at the stands and thrown himself down. His face was red, his hair in ginger disarray, and he crackled with an excitement Douglas had never seen before.

“I did it! I’m in – I’m Seeker! Did you see me? Did you... y-you didn’t seem me, did you?” Martin’s thrill faded quickly. His shoulders slumped as he looked between them. “Wh-what’s wrong? Why weren’t you watching?”

“We were-”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur interrupted, going slightly pink. “You got the position though? That’s brilliant! I knew you’d do it!”

He threw his arms around Martin, pulling him into a tight hug. Martin staggered and grinned, but he held Douglas’ gaze over Arthur’s shoulder. As he patted Arthur’s back, he raised an eyebrow. Douglas shook his head. _‘Later_ ’ he mouthed. If there was anything to discuss, that was – hopefully, Arthur’s nerves would wane and he would attend the Ravenclaw try-outs as planned.

When Arthur pulled back, Douglas plastered on a smile.

“Congratulations, Martin. This calls for a celebratory butterbeer.”

~~~

Ravenclaw try-outs came and went, and Arthur remained by their sides. At lunch, he disappeared and returned in his usual, black robes. Martin tried to interrogate him, but Douglas silenced him with a hand on his arm and a stern look – and a request for him to describe exactly how he had caught the snitch from right under Jutteau’s nose. Later, when Theresa arrived sweaty and satisfied, she patted Arthur’s shoulder but said no more.

Come evening, they were gathered in Carolyn’s office, Herc joining them with news of his new line-up. It was just like old times, when the captains would come together, share an illicit sip of firewhiskey, and enjoy their little community. Jutteau was absent, and Sergeant only popped in for a moment to inform them who he had chosen for Hufflepuff – Douglas glared at him until the door shut behind him.

“He’s not that bad,” Herc said, from across the room.

“I suppose if _you_ say it, it must be true,” Douglas replied. His feet were up on the side of Martin’s, having let Arthur take the sofa with Carolyn, Theresa perched on the arm. Sad as it was, he couldn’t think of anywhere he would rather have been.

Carolyn didn’t say a word about Arthur not trying out. She stayed close, showed perhaps a greater aptitude for comfort, and talked more softly, but was otherwise too busy flicking through the lists of new players and tutting loudly.

“No, I remember this one – speed’s not her friend. I can see why you made her Beater, Herc.”

“It’s just a shame I couldn’t give her my position. She’d make a better Keeper.”

“I’ll bear it in mind for next year,” Carolyn replied thoughtfully. “Now, Theresa – _your_ Keeper. Crocket’s a bit small, isn’t he? You’re sure he can cover the hoops? Last I saw, he was having trouble making himself known on the pitch.”

“He is small, but he’s also quick,” Theresa said, sipping her drink. “He can save any goal. If he doesn’t, I’ll throw in the towel.”

“Well, there’s no need to be _quite so_ drastic.”

The night wore on, until they risked missing curfew. The torches dimmed as though Hogwarts knew to remind them to get a move on. While the others talked amongst themselves, Douglas tried to summon an ounce of good feeling. He may not have been on the team, but... No, he had let Arthur down too.

“It’s a shame we won’t be getting that mixed team,” Theresa remarked, to general muttering. “What with Martin snapped up.”

Martin blushed and ducked his head, but raised his glass when the others did the same. Douglas watched fondly, a flicker of pride sparking into life. After a moment, Martin caught his eye. He smiled. Martin mouthed ‘ _thank you’_ and Douglas dismissed him with a shrug and a smirk. Still, the warmth didn’t fade from his chest.

He hadn’t done an entirely poor job.

~~~

The week of the first match, Hufflepuff against Gryffindor, was announced on every notice board throughout the school, a month after try-outs. Beside it hung a reminder that Seventh Years were meant to attend career meetings with their heads of house.

On Monday morning, Douglas glowered at the notice, and then left the warm embrace of the Hufflepuff common room. He stopped by the kitchens, accepted a basket of cakes from the house elves, and met Martin and Arthur for an early morning picnic on the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall.

It had become something of a ritual in the past month. Although they no longer met to train, Douglas found he enjoyed the undemanding company of the others. Arthur chattered about all manner of subject – whichever lesson had caught his attention and was giving him the most difficulty – and Martin needed constant reassurance that the complete encyclopaedia of flying techniques hadn’t slipped from his mind in his sleep. It was a chance to show off his broad knowledge and expertise. When the cakes had been devoured and they all felt a little heavier, it was the perfect opportunity to conjure word games and tricks, for his own entertainment as well as theirs.

It wasn’t enough to take Douglas’ mind from the steady passage of time. He wasn’t the sort to mourn the end of his school career – no matter how safe and regimented it was inside Hogwarts’ walls.

The day of the careers consultations, Douglas had Potions first thing. Sitting beside his merrily bubbling cauldron, breathing in fumes that smelt strongly of fish, he couldn’t muster the energy to pretend he was concentrating. He offered Professor Slughorn as charming a smile as he could manage when the elderly man arrived in his emerald green robes and inspected the concoction’s silver sheen.

“Very nice, very nice...” Slughorn nodded approvingly. He didn’t smile though. From under his cloak, he retrieved a roll of parchment. “Your homework back, Richardson. I must say, I’m surprised at how... poorly you’ve done, considering your obvious talent for brewing.”

“A minor slip up, nothing more,” Douglas replied, and buried the scroll in his bag.

It was with a grim weight on his shoulders that Douglas headed to his head of house’s office. The meeting went swiftly, aided by his eagerness not to spend a single moment more than he had to inside. All the while, the D marked on his Potions homework was burned in the back of his mind. He smiled confidently, but his heart was squeezed just as tightly as his throat as he listened to a mass of advice.

He was so distracted he nearly walked right into Martin.

“Everything alright, Douglas?” Martin asked as he steadied himself, a hand on each of Douglas’ arms. He had been more displaced by their collision, but actually looked quite cheerful for him.

“Fine... Yes, fine,” Douglas replied. He smoothed down his robes and looked around. For the first time, he realised that the halls were filled with students, tall and small, rushing about and laughing at the tops of their voices. He met Martin’s gaze again. “Can I say the same for you?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Off to class? Where are you headed? Charms?”

“No...” Martin frowned slightly, eyebrow rising. If anything, he looked amused as he began walking in the direction Douglas had been heading, bag swinging cheerfully from his shoulder. “It’s lunch, Douglas.”

“Oh.” Douglas silently cursed himself. He had been on his way to History of Magic, walking without thinking. Instead of admitting it, he slowed his stride just enough that he could follow Martin without _looking_ like he was letting him take the lead. “To the Great Hall then?”

Martin shrugged. “Or we could get something to take outside. The sun’s out.”

With no reason to argue, Douglas agreed. He didn’t fancy sitting with his friends, or listening to Arthur ramble about hinkypunks. Peace and quiet was what the doctor ordered, and for all his faults, Martin was excellent at giving him just that. In fact, Martin didn’t engage him in conversation again until they were sprawled by the lake, a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of pumpkin juice between them.

“Douglas, I hope you don’t mind me asking – wh-which you shouldn’t really, given how many horrible invasive things you’ve asked me-”

“I suggested some effective ways to ask a girl – or boy – out on a date.”

“I didn’t _ask_ ,” Martin exclaimed. He blushed, but his expression didn’t darken as it once had as he moved the sandwiches out of reach of the water the giant squid splashed in their direction. It was clear he was trying to be nonchalant, eyes darting from Douglas to his hands, but he was awful at it. “B-but back to what I _did_ ask... Are you alright? You seem a bit distracted and – and I know you’re probably thinking a dozen things right now, but... sorry, it’s none of my business.”

Douglas nodded in agreement. It wasn’t any of his business.

Martin ducked his head in apology.

After a moment, Douglas plucked a jam sandwich from the pile and made a show of inspecting the shape so that he didn’t have to make eye contact. He _did_ want to talk, actually – more than he had all day.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ , per say...”

“Right...” Martin nodded slowly.

“I’ve just come from career counselling. You’ll probably be having one, seeing as your OWLs are edging ever closer.”

“In February, yes. It shouldn’t be too bad.”

“I told my head of house I plan on becoming a Healer,” Douglas said bluntly.

Martin’s mouth fell open.

“A _Healer?_ ” he repeated. “I thought you wanted to play Quidditch.”

“Now whyever would you think that?” Douglas drawled, rolling his eyes. He sat back, picking irritably at his cloak. The grass was damp, but that was just the icing on a fairy terrible day. “No, Martin, I never intended to play professionally. The plan, since First Year, has been to qualify as a Healer. Apparently I have the natural talent, but for _some reason_ they feel I ought to... commit to it? Something like that. I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“And are you?” Martin asked gently. He fidgeted. “Committed, I mean?”

Douglas sighed and stared at Martin over his knee. He was wide-eyed and patient, making no effort to push him, although Douglas sensed that he might if he didn’t answer. The truth, as yet undefined, stuck in his throat. He shrugged and tried not to sound as though it bothered him. When his voice reached his ears, he thought he sounded bored.

“I’ve wanted to be a Healer since I first came to Hogwarts.”

“But you’re muggleborn,” Martin replied, scrunching his nose in confusion. “How could you know what it was?”

“Because my parents are both doctors, Martin. They did their research when they realised there aren’t any wizards in the Royal Society of Doctors. When they discovered St Mungo’s, they were thrilled. So was I, actually. It’s much more magical than what they do for a living – much more interesting too.”

“So you’re struggling?”

“No.”

“Then...” Martin trailed off, and picked at the grass. “Then I don’t understand what’s wrong? Do you have any idea how glad I’d be if Slughorn told me I was talented enough to fly professionally? The only thing that would make me happier is if he said I could play Quidditch _and_ study for my pilot’s license. But I _can’t_ , because I haven’t got any muggle qualifications, and they don’t let wizards fly planes.”

Glad to have moved on from his pitiful issues, Douglas sat up properly. He considered Martin – small, incapable of sitting still, and far too pedantic for his own good. Himself, he had never thought twice about the fact that he could walk back into the world he had been raised in without a second thought. No one had ever told him he _couldn’t_ – after all, his parents and his brother were muggles. He hadn’t got any A Levels, but they had to be forgeable. He supposed Martin didn’t have that luxury.

“Well, I’m sure there must be _someone_ willing to take you on,” he said.

Martin snorted. “Sure – with _my_ luck?”

“You got on the team, didn’t you? I can’t take all the credit,” Douglas replied. He couldn’t help but smile as Martin awkwardly cleared his throat. If Martin could win Jutteau’s favour, there was no reason he couldn’t get into St Mungo’s, whatever the staff thought, no matter how much he was suddenly, inexplicably dreading it.

Douglas sighed again and looked out across the lake. The squid’s arms arched above the water. A light breeze carded through the grass, filling the air with the sound of the Forbidden Forest rustling in the distance. Glad to stop worrying for a moment, he threw back the bottle of pumpkin juice just to have something to do.

“Douglas...”

He looked up, to find Martin picking at the grass, biting his lip.

“Yes?”

“You know, Jutteau’s nowhere near as good a teacher as you were,” Martin said.

Momentarily stunned that Martin would say anything nice at all considering it was normally like pulling teeth where he was concerned, Douglas blinked but said nothing. Then he grinned, flattered.

“Why, _thank_ you.”

“Don’t get smug,” Martin retorted. He shrugged and continued. “I-I only say, because – because he’s not got any respect for the official practices, or the drills, or even for planning formations around the rules. A-and I thought – w-well, I thought, you’ve got your way of doing things, but you always made sure we were flying safely, and that Arthur and I didn’t hurt _each other_ when we trained, a-and you don’t actually _break_ the rules so much as bend them so...”

“So...” Douglas’ curiosity peaked.

“So, I was wondering if – a-and you can say no. I was wondering if you wanted to fetch our brooms and have a – a bit of a fly around. It doesn’t have to be a practice, or anything like that. I just thought it might keep us both in shape, a-and-”

“Martin.” Douglas raised his hand. He waited long enough for Martin’s expression to turn truly dire with anxiousness before saying, “You don’t have to convince me. Any excuse to get in the air, I’m there.”

Later, when he was fifteen minutes late for History of Magic (Martin had had a free period and not thought to mention it), Douglas didn’t feel like telling Professor Binns that it was because he and Martin had spent the latter part of lunch soaring high above the ground, ducking and diving, making the most of the crisp winter air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter, yay! I managed it. So the update schedule won't be as swift as last week, as I'm back off my holidays now. But, I am definitely working on this in the back of my mind most days. This chapter's a bit meh - I looked at it when it was done and realised I'd written it backwards in terms of the build up of tension. Oops, never mind. 
> 
> But I hope you enjoy it anyway. There's more to come, and the plot should get back on track soon.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

It took a lot to ruin Arthur’s day – not that he could say it was _ruined_ , exactly. The hours up until lunch had been good. Herbology had left him covered in bubotuber puss, which was smelly but fun. That had led him to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey had fixed the ‘funny’ effect the pus had had on his skin. All in all, the morning had been great.

Then a tawny owl had landed at the Ravenclaw table, with the Hogsmeade Post Office’s emblem on a ribbon around its leg. The letter it carried was crisp, with a muggle stamp in the top right corner and the address printed on the front. Arthur ripped it open to find a professionally headed letter from his dad.

He must have been frowning, because Tiffy and Pogs asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing – it’s nothing, really. Just my dad, saying hello,” Arthur replied, forcing a smile. He read the letter in silence, biting his bottom lip, toasted sandwiches forgotten. There were the usual brief platitudes, the poor jokes that promised at the very least that his dad had written the letter himself instead of getting his secretary to do it.

Then there was the rest of it...

Arthur’s heart sank. He nervously tucked the letter into his robes and looked towards the Hufflepuff table. It was one of the days Douglas stayed with his classmates. Sometimes Phil and Dave did hilarious impressions, and Arthur would join them halfway through for a round of pumpkin juice and chummy laughter. Today, however, Douglas wasn’t among them. He was behind them, at the Slytherin table with Martin.

They had been sitting together a lot since the Quidditch season had started. It was good for both of them, Arthur thought.

 When he had given the letter some proper consideration, and glanced towards the staff table to make sure his mother hadn’t received one as well – which seemed unlikely given that his dad had started more than one line with ‘ _And be sure to tell your mother...’_ – Arthur made his way to the Slytherin table. When both Douglas and Martin stopped their conversation and frowned, Arthur supposed he must look really terrible.

“Hi, guys...”

“Arthur, what’s wrong?” Douglas asked. “Today’s selection of jams not to your liking?”

“No, it’s this.” Arthur gave him the letter. He watched as Douglas read it, and then passed it to Martin.

“He’s threatening to bring lawyers into it. He says he doesn’t care what Mum says, he wants GERTI back, or he’ll take her to court again,” Arthur said miserably. Nevertheless, a flicker of hope came to life in his chest when Douglas raised an eyebrow. “But Dad _knows_ about Hogwarts – he knows she’s not lying about GERTI crashing. He keeps threatening to come and _take_ the plane back, but he knows he can’t, and that’s why he’s saying she’s-”

“Wilfully withholding her,” Douglas concluded.

“I-I thought Carolyn won the plane in the divorce,” Martin said slowly.

“She did, but she never... it’s complicated. She could never present it to the judge, obviously, because Gordon tried to steal it and lost it in the woods,” Douglas said. “But it can’t be the plane he really wants. There’s something else – maybe that’s how he can get the lawyers on side, by telling them GERTI’s not the only thing Carolyn’s withholding.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Martin said, and patted his wrist.

Arthur smiled and nodded, but wasn’t sure he really felt it. He looked across the hall. His mother wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t really want to discuss his dad with her anyway. It would upset her.

“Dad wants me to convince Mum to-”

“Don’t do anything, Arthur,” Douglas instructed him.

“But he’ll just get in touch with _her_ and he’ll – he’ll make life difficult for her,” Arthur insisted. He looked anxiously towards the two ends of the Slytherin table, in case anyone was listening. Then he leaned closer. “This is why we need to get GERTI, so we can find whatever Dad wants and send it to him without Mum knowing. Then he’ll leave us alone.”

Douglas stared at him, brow furrowed. As always, Arthur wasn’t sure what his expression revealed, but he was sure it meant something good. It tended to come before something clever, or sneaky.

“Well... The year’s still young,” Douglas remarked. “I suppose we’ve time to take another, _careful_ look...”

“No, absolutely not,” Martin said. He looked between them, eyes wide. “You’ll get yourselves killed in there – and I’d have to report you to your heads of houses.”

Douglas sighed and rolled his eyes.

“ _Really_ , Martin?”

“Yes.” Martin folded his arms.

“We’d stay on the path,” Arthur said. “And we’d stay away from the centaurs. Unless they wanted to help. They must have seen something.”

“Point is, Martin, it’s going to take a lot more to dissuade me than _that_ ,” Douglas drawled.

Martin held his gaze, flushing red.

“Well... w-well then, I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I,” he said. “Someone’s got to keep you under control. I-it’s about taking responsibility.”

Arthur left them to argue, knowing he would need time to get to class while so distracted. It was only when he was out in the Entrance Hall that he saw a solution. It wouldn’t fix anything, but it might cheer his mother up. He struck out across the hall, waving to catch Herc’s attention.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Hi, Herc – you’re not busy, are you? It’s just I needed a favour, maybe – or not, if you’re doing something already.”

Herc placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, reassuring him just like that. “What is it?”

“Dad’s causing trouble again and I just... I wondered if you could cheer Mum up?” Arthur asked, even though he knew he shouldn’t. “You could take some Quidditch stuff and distract her. She thinks all your training drills are short-sighted, and um... And that they allow your players room to slack off. She’d enjoy correcting them.”

“Of course she would,” Herc sighed. But he looked interested. After a moment, he nodded and smiled to himself. “Well, I could pop over to her office. I was planning on using my free period to look up some cardio workouts for my beaters, but... I’m sure she’d know better.”

Arthur let him go, feeling brighter than when he received his letter. All he had to do was wait for Douglas to sort things out on his end. Then they could put things right. It couldn’t be that difficult, so long as everyone was kept happy.

~~~

Professor Longbottom was leaving Carolyn’s office when Herc arrived. The man gave him a short wave and a pointed glance, but didn’t stop to chat. The door was left open, but Herc still knocked.

“Ah, Hercules...” Carolyn spared him a fleeting glance. She was busy dusting her photographs, moving with a fidgety efficiency that belayed the fact that she was less than happy. She paused when Herc didn’t answer immediately. “Was there something I can help you with?”

“I brought these,” Herc replied. He raised a roll of parchment and tossed it onto her desk.

“Right, well, I’ll look over them.”

It was a dismissal. Herc didn’t leave. Instead, he hovered in the doorway and waited for her to stop fussing with the decor. She sighed and walked behind her desk, turning her attention to rearranging the quills and inkpots.

“I heard your ex-husband has been in touch,” Herc said. He hadn’t. But he knew that if Arthur was getting letters, then Carolyn had heard from Gordon Shappey as well. He had never met the man, but had heard enough.

“Herc, I have more important things to worry about that my louse of an ex-husband,” Carolyn sighed.

“I thought you could use someone to talk to. Or we could discuss something else. How did the governors’ meeting go?”

Carolyn stilled, hands pressed flat on the desk. Her head hung low and she sighed again, long and slow. When she raised her head, her expression was no less irritable than it normally was. However, there was a trouble uncertainty in her stance. Herc made to cross the room – to take a seat rather than approach her – but even that earned him a stern glare.

“Hercules... Can you imagine, for a moment, what Professor Longbottom came to talk to me about?” she asked.

“Gryffindor pride?”

“Well, yes, that as well. He’s supportive – a decent man, by all accounts,” Carolyn replied. But she didn’t smile. “No... no, he came to discuss the governors. More importantly, the governors’ opinion of me. What with all the speculation about whether I am fit to hold this post, or remain at Hogwarts at all, he thinks that certain rumours need to be seen to before they grow wildly out of control. Rumours breed doubt, you know.”

“Rumours?” Herc frowned and scratched his head. “What have people been saying? That Squibs can’t fly? Because we’ve all seen that that’s utter nonsense. In fact-”

“These aren’t rumours _yet_ ,” Carolyn cut him off. She bristled as her temper flared. “However, some members of staff... and of certain student bodies... seem to think that there may be room to accuse me of inappropriate conduct. Right now, it’s picking favourites. But Longbottom believes... and some governors think...”

An indignant sense of dread settled over Herc’s shoulders.

“What is it?”

Carolyn nodded to herself and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Hercules, it’s not appropriate for you to keep barging into my office all hours of the day. You’ve been a good friend, and a good student, but I don’t know what you’ve been saying – or what your friends have been saying, but-”

“The governors have a problem with _me_?” Herc exclaimed. He wasn’t sure what to think, but he didn’t like it. “Well, I’ll have words with them-”

“Say a thing and you’ll confirm everything they fear.”

“Which is _what_?”

“You know exactly what,” Carolyn replied. Wearily, she sat behind her desk. Her glare made it clear Herc wasn’t to move. “Contrary to popular belief, all teachers have favourites... I cannot, however, encourage whatever it is _you_ want from me, Hercules. I cannot spend time with you for the sake of spending time. If you want to discuss Quidditch, come during office hours. If you have concerns about Gryffindor house, go to Professor Longbottom. I know how you feel, but don’t-”

“If you know how I feel, then you know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Herc said. Nerves left him shaky, but he wasn’t ashamed. They had never said an honest word on the matter, but it was _implied_... he was sure it was implied. “I’m an _adult_. At the end of this year, I won’t be a student and we can-”

“We cannot do _anything_... and I wouldn’t even if it was acceptable. I don’t want whatever it is _you_ want with a child, Hercules. You may be an adult by law, but you’re too young for me to ever consider it, vain and flattered as I am,” Carolyn interrupted again, raising her hand. “I’m sorry if I’ve encouraged you, Herc-”

“If this is just about your career-”

“It’s only partly about my job. More important is the fact that whatever you imagine happening between us, will not happen. I’m... I’m _fond_ of you, Herc. I am. You’re a decent person, easy to talk to... and perhaps I overstepped the line. I shouldn’t have talked about Gordon with you, or the governors, but I enjoyed having someone who would listen.” Carolyn shook her head. “I take full responsibility for that. But I never once intended to act inappropriately, no matter how flattered I am.”

“You’re not a romantic, but-”

“There is no romance, Herc. And there won’t be when you finish school.”

“Because of what the governors will say?” Herc asked, voice tense. It was strange, discussing it so openly. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted.

“Because it wouldn’t be right. All of this nonsense with the governors has opened my eyes. Lord knows, I don’t _need_ to be having this discussion, Herc, but I _do_ need to draw a line under whatever it is... whatever it is that’s going on in your head,” Carolyn said sternly. “When you leave school, we won’t talk again. Go away, experience life-”

“What if I come back in twenty years and you’re still the only woman I ever loved.”

Carolyn grimaced the moment he said it.

“Then you will be in your thirties, and me in my fifties. You’ll be capable of knowing outright what you want, I’ll probably still think you’re a decent person... But it’s not twenty years from now. It’s _now_ , and I do not want you, Herc. You’re a good student, a good flier, and I am in a position of responsibility,” she said. “So I am telling you now, whatever you thought you came here to do, don’t. I won’t be confiding in you any more, unless it’s flying schedules. I... I forgot that you were my student and not my _friend_... but that’s all it is, Herc... _friendship_ , which is going to be put at arm’s reach from this moment on.”

Despite everything he wanted, Herc could sense, right down to his bones, that she was right. His hand curled around the door before he knew he was moving. The solid support was enough to ground him. As he watched her pulling parchment from her desk, his heart ached a little. He cared too much for it not to. The weight of the world was on her shoulders.

He was almost grateful to her for going out of her way to reject him outright. It meant his misery was washed away by a knot of annoyance.

“Actually... I’m here as a favour to Arthur. He said you could use some distracting.”

Carolyn looked up, and frowned.

“Well...” She reached for the scroll he had dropped on her desk. “I suppose I should look through this generous offering then. I’ll get it back to you next practice. Close the door on your way out.”

~~~

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Martin’s stony silence had been a mask behind which he hid what he _believed_ to be a clever plot. Nevertheless, Douglas didn’t realise until he and Arthur were on their way to the Forbidden Forest. They were in the shadows of the trees when Martin jogged into their path, broomstick under his arm.

“Nope, I’m afraid you’re not going in,” he said. “We’ve got other plans.”

“I don’t remember any plans,” Arthur replied.

“Martin’s mistaken,” Douglas said. “He’s clearly misunderstood what we discussed earlier. He’s free to join us, but there’s nothing he can say to stop us doing a little scouting.”

“Actually, the others are waiting for us,” Martin said, nodding in the vague direction of the Quidditch Pitch.

“Others?”

Douglas ignored him and edged closer to the trees. They were far apart around the edge, with sunlight streaming through the canopy. He didn’t get far before a shout rang out from behind them.

“Oi, Richardson. What’re yer think yer doin’?”

Hagrid strode from the forest, crossbow slung over his shoulder. Douglas retreated to Arthur’s side, smiling charmingly with his hands behind his back.

“Just enjoying the breeze, sir.”

“’Course yer were,” Hagrid replied. He headed towards his house, keeping his eyes on them as he slowed. “Well, if I catch yer goin’ in there again, Richardson, yer’ll have more to worry about than the breeze, got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

With one last stern glance, Hagrid left them be.

“Damn,” Douglas cursed under his breath.

“So I guess you’ll be heading over to the pitch then?” Martin asked gleefully. “I’ve got it all arranged. Three on three Quidditch – something to keep us occupied... keep us out of _trouble_. You’d hate to let the others down, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, I’d hate that,” Arthur replied. He looked towards the forest, and then shrugged. “I guess you were right earlier, Douglas. We have time. We could always come back another day.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Martin said quickly.

“And yet that’s how it stands,” Douglas drawled. He patted Arthur’s shoulder as he started back across the grounds. “Come on then, let’s see what you’ve set up. I can’t mark you down for enthusiasm, Martin, I’ll give you that.”

The others turned out to be Theresa, her little brother Maxi, and an unusually grim Herc.

“Us against them,” Martin explained. “That way we each have one non-team player.”

“I’m the Captain for our team,” Maxi piped up. He was already dressed in the smallest flying gear Douglas had ever seen, clutching the latest generation Firebolt.

“Actually, I thought one of the _actual_ Captains could be in charge of your team,” Martin replied. “You’ve got two on yours. And I know Douglas _used_ to be a Captain, but as the only person on _my_ team who’s actually on a team _now_ , I thought I should be ours.”

“Did you really?” Douglas said.

“Yes.”

“Well, lead on, _Captain_. Assign us positions.”

“We’re playing Chaser plus one,” Herc said. The only one sitting, he slumped against the stands. “We each take responsibility for scoring with the Quaffle. As Keeper, I’ll be covering the hoops. Theresa will have a bat, and Maxi’s going to have a go at Seeking.”

“I’m getting _really_ good,” Maxi agreed.

“Good, well... Well I should be Seeker, obviously,” Martin said. “A-and-”

“And then you need to decide whether you want to give Arthur a bat, or full responsibility for guarding our goalposts,” Douglas said. “Good luck, _Captain_.”

“Shut up, Douglas.”

“I think Douglas should be Keeper,” Arthur chipped in. “I fall off when I have to do all those dives.”

They played with the Snitch, the Quaffle, and one Bludger, which Arthur didn’t touch once. It was alright, as Theresa moved like a swallow in the air, keeping it far from him and Maxi, as though she knew they were most likely to fall. Herc was good, but Douglas still got more than a dozen goals past him. It was pure skill, and a refusal to stick to the regimented formations that Herc was calling out to the others. He even had time enough to watch Martin skim around the pitch, trailing Maxi until he saw a glint of gold.

He was good, until he realised he was being watched.

As the day wore on, Douglas began to remember what had drawn him to Quidditch in the first place. It wasn’t the challenge, or the competition. It was the joy of soaring past the others, whizzing through the air and freefalling without hitting the ground.

They didn’t stop until the sky turned dark, lightning streaked across the sky, and the heavens split open in a torrent of rain, driving them back inside the castle. Dripping and dragging mud on their boots, they hurried through the halls in an attempt to avoid Filch’s wrath.

“I think that went well,” Martin said. “And much more fun than wandering in the woods.”

Douglas rolled his eyes as he peered around the corner, but couldn’t help a smirk.

“If you say so, Captain.”

“Oh, shut up, Douglas.”

Before Douglas could respond, he was struck from above and doused in cold water. A high pitched screech was followed by Peeves whizzing overhead, arms full of water balloons. He spotted them in seconds. They made eye contact for a fraction of a second. Then they ran, all thoughts of the rest of the day pushed to the back of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter down!
> 
> This went smoother than the last. I actually had a decent conversation with Linguini17, which cleared up a huge loose thread for me. I wasn't sure where i was taking Herc and Carolyn (because the age gap made me super uncertain, and though I knew it wasn't going anywhere, I had no idea what to do with that). But Linguini helped me put the feeling into words, which is why you've got this scene, tying it into Carolyn's storyline.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this installment : )


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The relative benefits of inhabiting the Hufflepuff common room were many. Proximity to the kitchens was one. The cosy couches and roaring fire were another. Now, however, the warmth and soporific nature of the room was making it impossible to focus.

If he had been in one of the towers,  Douglas might have gazed from the window towards the Quidditch pitch. Martin was out there under Carolyn’s tuition, improving by the day when his nerve held. Douglas would have been out there too if it weren’t for the sudden rush of bad news piled up under his nose.

His latest Charms grade was accompanied by a concerned note from Professor Slughorn suggesting he join him for a quiet talk. Above that rested a letter from his parents. Entrenched in the muggle world as they were, they approached his last year of school the same way they had approached their own – with the belief that he should be working tirelessly day and night to ensure his _next_ year was just as educational.

_‘What provisions have you made to put you in good stead for university?... Surely your magical world has higher education...’_

_‘Now, I know a Healer is not a Doctor, son, but they seem much in the same. When I was your age... Medicine is a complicated game, magic or not...’_

_‘Isn’t it the time of year when you ought to be making applications? Is that how it works, with your world?...’_

Douglas sighed and dropped his head into his arms, hiding the various slips of parchment from view. Try as he might, he couldn’t summon the energy to solve anything.

Becoming a Healer was a long and arduous process, involved years of study with specialist tutors at the Ministry, and then on the job at St Mungo’s. His parents had no idea that Hogwarts didn’t adhere to the same protocol as muggle schools – there were no personal statement writing sessions, or accelerated courses, or universities that he knew of.

Then again, maybe there were. Being muggleborn, there were a lot of things his friends didn’t mention, because they assumed he already knew.

It left a lot of awkward gaps in his knowledge that he covered with nonchalance.

When Douglas raised his head, he shoved his quill and ink into his bag and carefully folded the letters. He didn’t know what to say to his parents.

The way things were going, the chances of him becoming a Healer were slim. Slughorn never paid him any notice unless he was doing terribly. His OWL grade had got him into the class by the skin of his teeth, but now... St Mungo’s wouldn’t have him if he failed his NEWTS. Not when Potion brewing was at the heart of most magical medicine. After everything he had done to reassure his parents that Healing was tantamount to being a proper doctor... Douglas had no idea what to do.

Life would have been much easier if it consisted solely of flying above all his troubles.

Douglas wasn’t sure how long he sat inert by the fire. He did notice, however, when Sergeant appeared at the corner of his vision.

His classmate was shorter than him, with a permanent hands-in-pockets, hunched shouldered swagger and a dissatisfied expression. For the most part, Sergeant kept out of his way – he had been opinionated and loud-spoken when Douglas was captain of the team, but he hadn’t caused any trouble outside of practices. Now, he stopped with a hand on the back of Douglas’ armchair and glanced nosily over his papers.

“I hear you’re taking bets on Saturday’s match,” Sergeant remarked.

“Slytherin versus Hufflepuff, and first match of the year,” Douglas replied, “It’s bound to stir up a few passions. Who am I to deny your fans the chance to throw their money away in a show of support. Why, do you fancy a flutter, Sergeant?”

“An honest man doesn’t bet on his own bleedin’ team.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m infinitely richer than you. Or perhaps it’s because you know to win you’d have to bet _against_ your own team?”

“Not a chance, not a chance. We’ve been training long and hard, three times a week. My players are whipped into better shape than they’ve been in years,” Sergeant said, without a trace of smugness. It was all self-righteousness, and an ounce of judgement, as though Douglas hadn’t poured all his efforts into nurturing _his_ team. “No, there’s no chance Hufflepuff won’t win this. Just thought I’d poke my head in.”

“Going to report me?” Douglas asked dryly.

“There’s no harm in a little fun,” Sergeant said, with a shrug. Then his gaze narrowed. “Unless, of course, you know something I don’t.”

Douglas frowned, and sat up straight. He didn’t rise, lest he look like he cared. Accusations were the last thing he needed now, while his heart was heavy and he would rather be outside in the open air.

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time training the Slytherin Seeker, haven’t you?”

“Yes... so?”

“So, I remember the kind of training you give. There are regimes and drills in place to ensure Quidditch remains safe and fair, and you were never one to stick them,” Sergeant said. He rounded the chair, looking down on Douglas as he never could when they stood toe to toe. “Richardson, I’ve made no secret of the fact I don’t like the way you do things. You’re a bleedin’ menace and a trouble maker. I want your assurance you haven’t been teaching that lad moves that could put Hufflepuff in danger of losing – there’s risky and then there’s illegal, and I can’t see the Headmistress being too happy if she finds out you robbed your own house by skewing the bets.”

At this, Douglas did stand. He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Am I meant to take criticism from a man who tried to help Arthur _cheat_ on his Muggle Studies test last year?”

Sergeant didn’t look uncomfortable. He just shrugged and glanced away.

“The lad knows the muggle world as well as anyone, he just needed a little leg up on accounts of him not being able to retain a single bleedin’ piece of technical information,” he said. “I’m not a stickler, Richardson. I just want things done properly. Long as no one’s getting hurt, you use whatever you can to get by.”

“Funny that doesn’t seem to apply to me,” Douglas drawled.

“Maybe I just don’t like you.”

Douglas scoffed and nodded. He took his seat and took some small pleasure from knowing Sergeant was still waiting for an answer. For a moment, he pushed his papers into a pile and folded them into his bag. Then he looked up, as though surprised to find he still had an audience.

“Oh, and I wouldn’t worry. If Slytherin wins, it will be down to a delightful blend of my exemplary skills as a Captain, and your utter lack of them.”

~~~

The Slytherin changing room was both quiet and far from it before the match. Martin sat on the bench, dressed in his robes, broom over his knees, as his teammates made their preparations as noisily as possible, without saying much to one another. Every now and then, Jutteau reminded them of what he had told them in their many practices, but was otherwise just as cowed by anticipation as the rest of them. To his relief, Martin received the occasional wobbly smile, proving that whether they were friends or not, his teammates were on his side and he on theirs for the next few hours.

Around them, the sound of feet thundered through the stands.

“Ready to go?” Jutteau asked finally, standing in the centre of the changing room with his hands on his hips. He focused in on Martin, sending chills through his already tight chest, and seemed to falter. “You... You keep on your toes.”

It was almost supportive.

Martin nodded vehemently and followed the others to his feet. They were all bulky and large, but he didn’t feel entirely dwarfed by them. Rather, he appreciated the way Douglas’ training had raised him in their esteem. They still didn’t think he would win them any games, but for the most part, they trusted him not to fall off his broom.

He wasn’t sure he agreed.

Nevertheless, when they walked onto the pitch, Martin ignored the roar of applause and boos from all sides. He didn’t bother searching for Douglas, or Arthur, or Theresa. Knowing where they were would only distract him. It was important to focus on not getting too dizzy – on flying straight and keeping a keen eye out for a speck of gold in hundreds of metres of air. Not on Carolyn mounting her broom and making Sergeant and Jutteau shake hands, or the balls soaring into the sky.

Then they were pushing off from the ground and the whistle was shrill in his ears.

Martin felt better the moment he was in the air. He flew laps around the pitch, ducking down to keep an eye on the proceedings as thirteen other players whizzed and weaved around one another, chasing the Quaffle and dodging the Bludgers. Karl, a fifth year Gryffindor kept track of the game from the commentator’s stand, letting Martin know the score as it rapidly racked up.

“Buzzing like flies, those Beaters – there’s Diego taking a Bludger from Harris. Oh, but Sergeant’s caught the Quaffle-”

“Interesting save that. You alright there, Alan?”

“Fifty – thirty to Slytherin – a nice quick game so far, and only a few nasty bruises – Oh! Oh, look, he’s dived, bless him!”

The match wasn’t quick at all. One of the things Jutteau had instructed Martin to do was let the points grow before he went anywhere near the Snitch. That way, they would be higher on the table when the next matches came. For the season as a whole, it was a good plan. So Martin stayed high above the rest, keeping an eye on Hufflepuff’s Seeker and watching the two teams’ different styles.

Hufflepuff had obviously been taught a set of formation and drills that they stuck to whenever the ball was gained or lost. It meant that they were predictable, but also intimidating – there was no getting past them if the whole team was near their own posts.

On the other hand, Slytherin’s method relief upon strength and speed. Contrary to popular belief, Jutteau _did_ have set formations and training regiments – he didn’t rely on dirty moves and random attacks. He just focused on each player, rather than the team as a whole. If Hufflepuff got the Quaffle, the nearest Slytherin went after them – another marked them from above, boxing them in. If a Bludger was within reach, it always went towards the Chaser _about_ to catch the Quaffle, not the one holding. If they were near enough to block the Keeper, they did, whichever position they were playing.

The things Douglas had been teaching him were different, and Martin kept them in the back of his mind as he drifted around the pitch.

“Ninety – Seventy, to Hufflepuff! You’re slacking guys, gal’s, and variations thereupon – pick it up, Slytherin. Or don’t, it’s no skin off my back!”

Karl’s report brought Martin lower, to keep an eye on things.

If they wanted to be high in the ranking table, they needed to win by more points than the Snitch alone could give them. As he watched, he saw moments when Douglas would have slipped away untouched, snatching the Quaffle or blocking the player _he_ would be marking but the Slytherin’s were ignoring. Douglas may have been Keeper, but he could have swept the floor with any of them. His methods weren’t textbook, per say... but right now, seeing opportunities to get points falling through their fingers...

It was frustrating, and Martin wasn’t sure he could keep a look out for the Snitch when he was internally correcting his teammates’ mistakes.

 After what must have been an hour, Marti found himself close enough to the other players that he could feel the air coursing past his cheeks as they soared around him. He saw Slytherin’s Chasers racing down the pitch – Hufflepuff getting swiftly into the Wright Formation, ready to intercept them. His eyes flashed to the crowd, but the faces were a blur.

For the first time in his life, he wondered what Douglas would do.

He didn’t just want to play, he wanted to win.

Throwing caution to the wind, Martin dove and whirled towards his own team’s Chasers. He ducked beneath them, and soared up between them. They broke apart in shock, but it didn’t matter. As Martin belted up, twisting as he went, the Hufflepuff formation shattered as they scattered in surprise.

A clang rang out, followed by Karl’s shout.

“And Slytherin scores! Nice move from their new Seeker!”

Martin’s heart glowed as half the crowd roared, thundering in the stands. He wobbled in the air, but he didn’t stop. His mind was made up. He was on a roll.

Without thinking too hard, he searched for the Snitch, marking Hufflepuff’s Seeker and Beater’s interchangeably as he whirled around and around the pitch. He blocked passes, distracted their Keeper, and stayed on his broom the whole time. Nothing he did interfered with the other team’s play, but it made it impossible for them to stay in formation when Bludgers were chasing Martin _through_  them – or when their own Seeker was following him towards the stands, only to veer off course as Martin tucked and rolled, dropping like a stone into a mass of their own players.

Then Martin saw the Snitch – a glint of gold among fluttering yellow robes. He heard Karl announcing that Slytherin was leading by sixty points. Risking it a little longer would be a stupid thing to do considering Sergeant was yelling instructions to his players, upping Hufflepuff’s game. Their Seeker was good. Martin wasn’t sure he was anywhere close, but there was always room for dumb luck.

He streaked after the Snitch.

The right way to do it was to follow it directly – feint maybe, to throw his opponent off, but otherwise... Martin didn’t have time to think. The air raged in his ears as he flew around the pitch, after the Snitch. The other Seeker was doing the same, alerted by Karl’s shout. It was a race to the finish, their brooms evenly matched, and Martin knew he should keep going like that – he should try and get ahead.

But the Snitch turned, and dropped, and curved around.

The other Seeker followed it in a perfect turn.

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. He had to do something, or they would lose.

What would Douglas do?

Anything... he would do literally anything, no matter how stupid...

Martin reared back and let his broom drop like a stone. The crowd’s cries were nothing more than a rabble as he toppled down, gripping his broom like a lifeline. The players beneath him had no choice but to scatter, some of them into the path of Bludgers or their own teammates. As Martin fell, he held his breath. He kept falling, and falling – head spinning – and then jerked up so fast even Carolyn would have taken points during a lesson.

He slipped to the end of his broom, levelling out directly in the path of the Snitch.

It flew into his palm as if by accident.

The next few minutes were a blur. Martin hit the ground in the arms of every teammate that collided with him, in a flurry of green and silver. The crowd was screaming, the stands clamouring with noise. The Snitch wriggled in his fist.

When he was set on the ground, he was confronted with Jutteau, red faced and windswept.

“I don’t know what you were doing up there, Crieff, but it was good... damn, it was good. Why didn’t you do that in practice?”

“I-it was nothing, really,” Martin said, breathless.

“ Obviously – it was ridiculous! Still...” Jutteau didn’t seem to know how to compliment him, but his eyes were full of admiration. He grasped Martin’s shoulder and that was enough to make Martin’s lip wobble with emotion.

“Well, that’s it folks. Slytherin wins. Let’s hope Hufflepuff wins their next match against Raveclaw, or they’re out of the running.”

With Karl’s final comments, the crowd began to pour from the stands and the teams headed back towards the changing rooms. Martin was caught up in the flow of congratulations and exultation. But he slipped away from the rest of his team.

There was really only one person he wanted to see, and he wondered why Douglas wasn’t there already, patting him on the back. Carolyn was certainly within sight, and Arthur was bounding across the pitch to meet him.

“That was brilliant, Martin!” Arthur cried as he swung an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “I thought for a minute you were going to die, but then you didn’t and it was brilliant! Douglas couldn’t even say anything he was so impressed.”

“Where is Douglas?” Martin asked.

“He was right behind me, but then his team turned up,” Arthur explained.

Together, they headed back towards the stands. Martin was surprised to find Arthur and Douglas had been watching from the very first row – Arthur pointed out their seats from the ground.  They ventured into the stands and up the stairs, past students that seemed unanimously impressed by Martin’s performance. So many people were talking that they didn’t hear raised voices until they stumbled upon the stand-off on the stairs.

“-don’t know what you think you’re playing at-”

“I’m not having this discussion again, Sergeant. If you wanted my advice, you shouldn’t have taken my captaincy,” Douglas snapped, shoulders squared, standing to his full height as he loomed over Sergeant. One arm was crooked over a wooden box that Martin was sure contained Galleons and Sickles – no Knuts, he remembered Douglas saying.

Sergeant, yellow robes still reeking of sweat, glared up at him with his hands clenched at his sides, ready to explode.

“I don’t want your bleedin’ advice,” he fumed. “Some of those moves were illegal – and bleedin’ unsafe!”

“They were reactionary and pre-emptive.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been teaching that lad, but I won’t have it! This is the sort of thing that got you thrown from the team in the first place-”

“What are you going to do? Hold an inquiry?” Douglas sneered.

“Maybe I will! And maybe I’ll have our Head of House look into your underage gambling while I’m at it – seeing as we can’t be sure how involved you were in Slytherin’s win.”

“Why you little...”

Martin wasn’t sure what to do. His chest heaved as he hesitated, and then strode forwards, ready to plunge into the fray. Then he saw Douglas’ eyes flash over Sergeant’s shoulder. Douglas stepped back, sagging. His expression dropped instantly.

“Have it your way. Speak to whoever you want, just keep out of my way.”

With that, Douglas hefted his money box into his arms and marched down the steps, ignoring Sergeant’s huffing and puffing. He cast Martin a single glance, but said nothing. Arthur fell into step behind him and Martin turned to do the same. As he did, he saw Carolyn reach the bottom of the stands.

“Dare I ask where my second Captain has gone?” she sighed.

“I think he wants a word,” Douglas replied, and continued around the edge of the stands, towards the exit.

Bewildered, head still spinning, Martin hurried after him.

“Douglas! Douglas, hold on!”

Douglas stopped with a dramatic heave of his shoulders, and waited for Martin to catch up. When he did, he saw the foul expression on his friend’s face – somewhere between misery and irritation.

“What was that about?” Martin demanded.

“Sergeant seems to think I taught you illegal moves so that I could rig the betting pool I was running,” Douglas replied simply. He kept up a steady pace away from the pitch, back towards the castle.

“No, I-I mean why did you walk away?” Martin said. “Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?”

This time, Douglas did stop. He stared at Martin as though he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Then he shifted the box in his arms, fidgeting in the subtle, uncomfortable way Martin had learned he did when he was thinking too quickly and too slowly all at once.

“There were governors in the stands above us,” Douglas said eventually. “The last thing Carolyn needs right now is a fight breaking out under her watch.”

As Douglas strode across the grounds, Arthur at his side, Martin stared after them. All the joy of winning the match slipped to the back of his mind as he suddenly saw Douglas in a new light. There wasn’t time to dwell, however, as a mass of cheering erupted behind him and he was swept up onto the shoulders of housemates that had never before paid him so much attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as I promised, huge gaps between updates. I've just finished my second week of my new job, and I'm still sticking to my rule of not writing this until I've written a chapter of my novel, so that's how it's going to be from now on.
> 
> This chapter was a pain, because how do you write flying? For ages? Nope.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I did.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Care of Magical creatures was one of the best subjects Hogwarts had to offer, in Arthur’s opinion. An hour outside, in the midwinter chill, wrapped up in gloves and scarves and fluffy hats was the best way to dispel any bad feelings clogging him up like a cold. Hagrid had prepared crates of salamanders, which provided the perfect warmth. The Fourth Years were enjoying the classes more than normal, as the cold weather meant the larger creatures Hagrid liked to present would rather stay hidden away rather than be petted and cooed over.

It was difficult, however, to let go of all the worries that had collected like cobwebs over the past few months.

While Tiffy fussed over the salamander, clumsy with her dragon-hide gloves, Arthur hummed under his breath and tried to weigh up the positives and negatives. She didn’t seem to mind that he was quiet. It meant she could be quiet too, with deadly, fascinated focus.

On the one hand, Arthur wasn’t upset about missing out on a place in the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Their first match was in a few weeks, against Slytherin. He was just glad he got to spend time with Douglas, and Martin, and play for a little while without having to worry about skill.

And that was another thing – Martin and Douglas, getting along like they had been friends for years. It meant _he_ didn’t have to worry about Douglas. Well, he would _always_ worry about Douglas, in the way Douglas needed to be worried about.

Not the way Douglas worried about _him_.

Douglas would never forget his textbooks – his homework, Douglas claimed, was never forgotten but only set aside. But his mood was off, sometimes. Where Arthur looked for the bright spots in every day, Douglas seemed to seek out the darkest parts to define his time. He liked to show off, and most of the time it worked, but sometimes it didn’t. He became the wrong kind of quiet, when he was the wrong kind of loud on the outside.

Lately though, Douglas had been more than alright.

Arthur had noticed during one of their recent late-night wanderings. One of the benefits of Douglas living next to the kitchens was that he was never reluctant to spend the whole evening there. The downside was that they often spent so long munching cakes and sweets that he had to escort Arthur back to Ravenclaw Tower without getting caught. And last time, Douglas had chattered away about Quidditch, and books, and all manner of thing and Arthur had thought that he was really alright for the first time in over a year.

That was all down to Martin, and his steady admiration and scolding.

“Arthur, you’re dripping ink on the salamander’s nose,” Tiffy said, a hand on his arm.

“Oh, whoops!” Arthur quickly dabbed the lizard’s nose with his sleeve and finished the notes he had been writing.

“I can do those, if you’re busy,” Tiffy offered, gently lifting the salamander into its makeshift bed. She had a way with animals – a gentleness and patience.

“I’m not busy.”

“Thinking, I mean. You could talk if you wanted.”

“I was just thinking about all the good things that have been happening lately,” Arthur replied. He fetched the little straw bed that had been set aside, and then dunked it in water when Tiffy pointed to the bucket. “Oh yeah – ‘cos it’ll catch fire otherwise.”

“Exactly,” Tiffy said. “Good things as in, there are _bad_ ones too?”

“Well, I guess even though Mum’s not been talking about it, she’s been trying _really_ hard to do her best in her flying lessons, because the governors are watching her. They even had someone in her lesson the other day, watching. She was furious,” Arthur said. He shrugged, but he remembered warning Douglas not to knock on his mother’s office door that evening. “It just means she’s upset really, ‘cos she’s good at her job. So good she just sort of doesn’t worry about it. She does her thing and puts her feet up. All she cares about is being able to point at her students and say ‘ tada – look at what a success I’ve been.’”

Arthur trailed off as Tiffy nodded, pausing long enough to help shred the dried sage for the salamander’s snack.

“But yeah, she’s not happy. I don’t think the governors will get rid of her. She’s brilliant. They’ll see that, no matter what anyone says about whether she belongs in Hogwarts or not, because we know she _does_ ,” he continued. “Thing is though, Dad’s been writing too.”

“The same threats as before?”

“Yeah. Douglas explained how bad it could be, if Dad stirs things up. It wouldn’t just lose Mum a load of money. If he really pushes with the lawyers and things, it might get her in trouble with the Ministry – something about the Stature of Secrecy.”

“Statute.”

“That was it. I don’t understand why wizards and muggles can’t just be friends anyway, but I trust Douglas when he says it’s not a good idea right now, even if he doesn’t make sense,” Arthur said. He winced as the salamander sneezed, and quickly slipped into his gloves. “I just wish Dad would stop for a bit. He’s got loads of money, and he could definitely buy another plane... Everything would be fine if we could just find GERTI.”

“You’d let him have her?” Tiffy asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t _want_ to. Mum loves her plane. But maybe we could... we could prove she isn’t hiding it, or, or whatever Dad says she’s doing, if only we could show the lawyers the plane and prove that Mum’s not... doing whatever it is they think she’s doing. Something to do with the terms of the divorce.”

Tiffy didn’t push him to talk about it any longer. Hagrid wandered over and helped them prepare a proper bed over steaming coals. As they trudged back up to the castle, however, water turning their socks damp, Arthur knew what he had known all along.

No matter how well life was going lately, nothing would be solved completely until they found GERTI.

~~~

“You thought it was a good idea before,” Arthur insisted. He had clearly given the matter a lot of thought, but had waited until well after curfew, as they walked back to Ravenclaw with armfuls of shortbread and homemade lemon curd, to bring it up. They had already spent the day mucking out the changing rooms, and running between Carolyn’s office and the Owlery, and he hadn’t mentioned a thing.

Douglas supposed Arthur might have left the matter to the last minute deliberately, so that he was too busy keeping them from getting caught to run away.

“Well perhaps I’ve found some perspective,” Douglas replied simply.

In the dark, the castle was easier to navigate, but there was also more chance of stumbling upon a teacher, or a Prefect, or – and he shuddered at a memory from First Year – turning a corner to see a gruesome, spectral figure drift through one of the grand stone walls. Keeping Arthur from getting caught was a monumental feat, but he liked to think he was an expert. It was worth the midnight snacks, at least.

“You mean you’re scared Martin will tell you off again,” Arthur said.

“Arthur, you’ve _wounded_ me.”

“He’s shoutier than you were when you were Captain.”

“ _Offended_ me.”

“Do you think he’d make a good Captain, when Jutteau’s left?”

“I think if Jutteau annoys your mother much more, she’ll make Martin Captain _now_ ,” Douglas replied, feigning a shudder. “But my point still stands, Arthur. I’m not saying no because Martin’s likely to get himself into a snit. I’m saying no because... because with due thought, I don’t think we’re going to find GERTI. We’ve tried. The Forbidden Forest is bigger than you seem to think, and it’s full of things even I haven’t faced. Given that there’s no reason to believe your father would even drop the matter if he had proof GERTI’s not stashed away somewhere, it’s not worth the risk right now.”

Arthur nodded sagely, hands in his pockets.

“That sounds _exactly_ like what Martin would say.”

Douglas stopped, ushered Arthur into an alcove, and looked him dead in the eye. It was a shame, seeing him so miserable. The weeks had passed in a flurry of poor grades and Quidditch training, and he was itching for an adventure. But this wasn’t the way to go about it. He didn’t _want_ to be crushed by a centaur or eaten by one of the giant spiders old GW used to boast about seeing in his First Year.

“Listen to me, Arthur. Your father knows how precarious your mother’s place in the Wizarding World is. If he causes a fuss, he might drag her right out of it, like the slippery snake he is,” he said. “That probably won’t happen. The chances of his lawyers, or whoever he sends, getting near enough to Hogwarts or the Ministry are slim, but let’s not make things worse by getting _you_ killed, hmm?”

Arthur nodded glumly.

Sighing, Douglas led the way back into the draughty corridors. Their footsteps echoed dully on the cobblestones, but they moved quickly, close to the walls. Two steps behind him, Arthur nibbled a piece of shortbread.

“How about Quidditch?” Douglas remarked after a while.

“What about it?”

“Well, your house is playing Martin soon. Will you be abandoning us to help Theresa train her team?”

“What? No, I like helping you,” Arthur said, wide-eyed. He hurried to keep up, forgetting he was supposed to be quiet. “It’s like our own little team, isn’t it? I know I’m not very good, but it’s brilliant the way you help _me_ help Martin. I’ve never been so useful.”

“There we go then – focus on that,” Douglas said. A ghoulish chill crept beneath his cloak, so he raised a hand, bringing them to a stop. He waited a moment, and then ducked into a passageway hidden behind a tapestry. “We have a lovely time a few days a week, flying and _improving_ every time, helping our friend succeed – and then we get the rest of the week to enjoy each other’s company, dream away our classes, socialise... it’s terrific.”

“Yeah, I know...” Arthur was quiet for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It’d be brilliant if Slytherin could win though. I mean, I know I’m supposed to want my team to win, and I do, but it would be nice if he got to win something for once.”

“Hmmm...”

Douglas nodded, but didn’t think it worth replying. It _would_ be nice, not only to give Martin the joy of holding the Quidditch Cup at the end of the year, but to relish seeing Sergeant and Herc endure the indignity of losing.

It was a sad truth, however, that Martin’s abilities were still... patchy.

He had won the last match by a stroke of madness and luck – Douglas’ usual forte, without any of the planning.

The chances of that happening again... Douglas didn’t like to think badly of him, he was good enough, but Theresa was incredible and possessed the ability to inspire the same astounding talent in her team. Five minutes and she would knock Martin off his broom, friends or not.

What Martin really needed was the kind of fortune he never had...

Douglas grinned to himself. Inspiration was still miles away, but he had the seed of an idea – something to keep him occupied until the next match, to wager against, to help Martin and Arthur and himself out as best he could. It was better than thinking about the fact that Binns was the only Professor even slightly impressed with him at the moment, or that it had been over a week since he had replied to his parents’ letters.

With a renewed spring in his step, Douglas elbowed Arthur in the ribs.

“Did I ever tell you where the Bloody Baron got his bloodstains?”

Arthur’s eyes widened.

“No! What did he _do_?”

“Well, that Arthur is an interesting story that I acquired via means of a delightful chat with the ghost of a charming woman...”

~~~

The night before the Ravenclaw vs Slytherin game, Jutteau had them training right up until dinner. It was freezing cold, and drizzling, but there was a buzz of excitement about the team.

Martin still fumbled when Jutteau turned his way, but he had managed to get through three practices without upsetting the Beaters, and one of the Chasers had even cornered him to suggest they plan ahead of time some twisting, dangerous moves to help one another confuse Ravenclaw’s Keeper.

At the end of practice, there were a few Slytherins hanging around the stands.

Hester MacCauley was among them.

Stunning and haughty as ever, she was obviously waiting for her friend, one of the Chasers. Martin’s cheeks burned as he loitered nearby, eager not to make a spectacle of himself. He intended to stay behind and get an hour of flying to himself, without the added pressure. It came as a surprise when a sultry, cheerful voice greeted him.

“Martin, isn’t it? I saw your catch, last game.” Hester had approached him, leaving her friend behind to smile smoothly. She stood taller than him, which didn’t help the skipping in his chest.

“O-oh, well, yes – thank you – I mean, thanks. Everyone saw it really – th-that’s not to say-”

“I wasn’t sure how well you’d do, looking at you,” Hester continued. “But I’m glad you did well. I rather like the idea of seeing the cup in our common room.”

Martin nodded eagerly.

“Well, good luck tomorrow,” Hester said, and left him, mouth flapping.

With no idea what else to do, Martin waited for the rest of the team to disappear and set about his practice as planned. It was with a heart glowing with pride that he landed again. The pitch was quiet. There was no one to see the skip in his step. He was completely alone, giddy with excitement as he carefully placed his broom aside – so much so that he didn’t notice at first the movement inside the otherwise empty changing rooms.

Hesitating for only a moment, Martin rolled up his sleeves and headed towards the source of the noise. It was no more than a shuffling and a click.

He turned the corner – and walked in on Douglas, sitting at a bench with a case open beside him, a cloth in one hand, and the key to the cupboard where the teams kept their brooms in the other.

They both froze.

Douglas stared up at him, eyes flickering ever so slightly, chasing thoughts.

Martin peered down at the case and saw it was a normal broomstick repair kit. It was, however, filled with an unusually great amount of handle polish – about twelve tins. The little brushes and bristle clippers were absent.

“Stayed behind, I see?” Douglas drawled, voice lilting just a little too high as he smiled.

Martin looked between the case and the cupboard. Realisation struck.

“Oh, _Douglas_ , you’re _not_!”

“Not what?”

“Greasing the Ravenclaws’ brooms,” Martin replied tersely. His hands clenched, but he puffed up his chest and forced himself not to snap. It wouldn’t work, he knew now, after months of doing just that. “Do you really think I’m – I-I’m that bad... I can win this match on my own, Douglas. I can.”

Douglas frowned.

“I’m not doing this to help you win.”

Confusion caught in Martin’s throat.

“W-what?”

“I mean, I _am_ doing it so you can win,” Douglas elaborated, curling his hand through the air. He still hadn’t made any effort to hide what he was doing. “But not because I don’t think you’re good enough to do it on your own. I just want to make _absolutely_ sure, because it would cheer Arthur up immensely. Also, Theresa still hasn’t given me back my chess set and I’d rather like a laugh at her expense.”

For a moment, Martin was almost convinced by Douglas’ charming smile. Then he shook himself, realising that that was entirely the point of it. Shaking his head, he strode across the room, slammed the cupboard shut, and took the case before Douglas could snatch it back. He left Douglas chasing him back into the changing room, cloth held aloft.

“That cost me three galleons,” Douglas exclaimed.

“Well you can find something else to do with it,” Martin said simply. He didn’t bother changing – it was too much of a risk, letting the case out of his hands for a moment. Instead, he secured his broom with one hand and marched out into the crisp evening air, Douglas on his heels. “You’re not cheating, Douglas. You’d put the whole cup into question. Honestly, you should know better by now. Is this what you got sacked for?”

Douglas’ stony silence was all Martin needed to feel like he had been slapped by his own senselessness.

He sighed, closed his eyes a moment, and turned, case tucked under his arm.

“I’m sorry, alright?”

“Master of the apology, you.”

“But you know this isn’t the right thing to do,” Martin said. He started back towards the castle only when he was sure Douglas was traipsing along beside him. “You’ll feel much better knowing we succeeded fairly. What’s the point in practicing if you’re just going to go behind my back and rig the game?”

Again, Douglas didn’t answer. He spoke again only when they entered the Great Hall, where dessert was already half gone.

“What am I supposed to do with twelve tins of polish?”

Martin rolled his eyes and led the way to the Hufflepuff table. There was space beside some of the Fifth Years he was friendly with in class. He dropped down, noting how Douglas sat on the other side, out of reach. With a huff, he turned to the boy beside him.

“Diego, you’re a resourceful sort of chap. Do you need a lot of broomstick polish?”

Diego paused, spoon suspended over his treacle tart.

“Me?... No... What I need is a guitar – a really nice guitar.”

“R-right...” Martin nodded. Before he could respond to Douglas’ smug eyebrow, Diego spoke again.

“You know who has a nice guitar? Dirk. Dirk has one,” he said. “You know, I’m sure he would give it to me if I gave him a lot of polish – the good stuff. He’s doing carpentry in his Muggle Studies class. I told him, he should have taken engineering, like me. Nowhere near as many things to varnish.”

To Martin’s surprise, Douglas lurched across the table. He recovered quickly, but his eagerness was clear.

“Diego, my friend, would you consider a little deal?”

Half an hour later, Martin stood in the Hufflepuff common room in disbelief as Diego handed Douglas two dozen AA batteries in return for tins of polish. Douglas passed them from hand to hand, grinning as Diego departed.

“You know electrical items don’t work here,” Martin muttered.

“I happen to know a First Year with an X Box who refuses to accept that,” Douglas replied smugly. “He’s been screwing and unscrewing that thing all year trying to make it work.” He beamed and dropped the batteries into his pockets. “ _Yes_... I think he also has a wonderful array of coconut truffles he doesn’t like. Someone will want those...”

Left to his own devices, apparently forgotten, Martin stared after him and wondered whether he should be glad he had diverted Douglas’ attention, or horrified at the peculiar trading scheme he had inadvertently set in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I got another one out, and I really like this one actually!
> 
> I've been in my new job a month now, and I think it's gone alright. The reason this took so long to write was because I spent 2 WHOLE WEEKS editing a single chapter of my novel, which is ridiculous, and I am a shameful, shameful slacker. I'll try and be more productive from now on. There'll be no one to distract me the week after next, as my whole family is going on holiday without me, so...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I've got a little bit of everything in here, and I think it's fun.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The morning of the match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin brought with it a mass of discussion that blossomed when both teams went down to breakfast, swathed in blue and green. People cheered and heckled, and Jutteau took it all on the chin. Others were curious as to whether Slytherin’s Seeker would be so lucky next time. The Beaters stayed with Martin until they reached the long tables, clapping his shoulders. He wasn’t the best player on the team by any means – on any team – but the element of confusion and surprise that still surrounded him had captured Jutteau’s imagination.

It was a tactic, to keep the other teams on guard. It was almost like acceptance.

Martin’s stomach twisted and churned as he listed to the voices around him.

His pride was too keen not to feel pleased at the attention. At the same time, as he picked at the bacon on the end of his fork, trepidation wormed its way through him. His uniform was a little too big – a hand-me-down from the previous Seeker. His teammates were a little too competitive and self-assured. Both fit, more or less, but they weren’t comfortable. Martin was actually considering asking Douglas if he could borrow his broom just for the illusion of an advantage.

It wasn’t an option though. Douglas had been cheerful for an hour or two last night, but the glitter in his eyes had faded soon enough. Even now, with his Hufflepuff scarf the brightest spot amidst the mass of green at the Slytherin table, he was unpleasantly morose. His knuckles would likely leave an impression where he propped up his cheek, pushing beans around his plate.

“I don’t suppose you’ve found anything else to swap?” Martin asked.

“I’m not running a playground trading scheme for toddlers, Martin, I’m an entrepreneur,” Douglas muttered. He sighed and sat back, peering across the hall. “Look at that. They’ve all gathered round to see your triumphant return to the pitch. Perhaps you should concentrate on what we covered yesterday instead of prying into my business.”

“I spent all night replaying those drills in my head.”

“Well then there’s no chance you could lose this match, is there?”

Martin glared at Douglas as he lowered his gaze again. His hair flopped over his eyes. It stung slightly, being ignored. There wasn’t time to be upset, however, as Douglas was suddenly flanked by Theresa, stunning in silver and blue, and Arthur, who was almost unrecognisable beneath his face paints. They made the air crackle with excitement.  It was a miracle, Martin thought, that anyone could be so unerringly confident.

“I hope you are prepared for what my team have in store for you,” Theresa said, pinching a triangle of toast from the platter in the centre of the table. “You have done marvellously in your private practices, but I’m not sure what Jutteau has been teaching you. It might have undone all our good work.”

“Is that supposed to be fighting talk?” Martin asked, swallowing a knot of nerves at the prospect of facing her on the pitch. He had put it to the back of his mind, for the most part. It was a daunting idea.

“Well I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not one hundred percent supportive of your rather foolish desire to beat me,” Theresa drawled, with a shimmering smile. She shrugged and swept her dark curls over her shoulder, elbows on the table, elegant in her utter lack of it. “It would be a shame if we had to stop being friends when I knock you off your broom.”

Martin scoffed, cheeks burning.

“Trust me, I, uh... I’ll probably manage that myself.”

“Don’t say that, you’re brilliant,” Arthur said. “It’s been ages since you fell.”

“A laudable feat, of course,” Douglas murmured. He didn’t raise his eyes.

“He’s pretending he’s not interested,” Martin explained as Theresa frowned and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Something’s put him in a foul mood. Can’t say what it is though – it can’t have been more than eight hours since I saw him last.”

Douglas grunted.

To Martin’s delight, Theresa and Arthur stayed at Slytherin table, keeping up a cheerful chatter that both raised his self-esteem and made him care far less about losing the match. His house might be upset, but his friends would be thrilled. Theresa was already smiling in a half-tilted way that made something warm and sweet swoop inside his chest, and he knew it would be worth letting her win just to enjoy her pleasant mood in class.

Not that he wanted to lose. That would be unprofessional, and defeat the point of competing at all.

And if Theresa thought _he_ thought he would have to _let_ her win... well...

When the post owls arrived, filling the air with a papery flap of wings and hearty squawks, Theresa’s glorious bird dropped a pile of letters in her lap and then soared away to visit Maxi and each of her sisters. Another dropped a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet into Douglas’ baked beans, earning an irritable glare. Arthur picked it up and tried to wipe the mess away with a napkin. Martin snorted into his drink, and then jumped as a letter hit him in the nose.

The letter was in a proper, embossed envelope. His brother’s handwriting marred the front.

Shoulders squared, as if anyone cared enough to sneak a peek, Martin tore the letter open and glanced over it. Simon was full of the same old boasts about his role at the Ministry, which had only recently stopped being a glorified internship. Here and there, though, there were snatches of something that might have been pride – mentions of his position on the Quidditch team swamped by pieces of advice. Then there was the last line...

“You alright, Martin? You look a bit pinkish,” Arthur said.

Martin looked up.

The other boy seemed to be making up two cups of hot chocolate, one covered in cream and marshmallows, the other the way Douglas liked it – nearly white with milk, extra sugar still glittering on the foam.

“I-I’m fine,” Martin said quickly. He folded the letter into the front of his robes and cleared his throat. He had their attention – even Douglas’, although his finger was poised over the Prophet. “It’s my brother. He’s coming to watch the match.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. They nodded sagely, thoughtfully...

“Then I should definitely knock you right off your broom,” Theresa said. “Give him a chance to see how impressively you get back up.”

This time, Martin’s cheeks burned. He dropped his gaze and rubbed at the back of his neck.

When he looked up again, Douglas still hadn’t moved. His brow was furrowed.

“Douglas?”

“Muggles trying to get in touch with the Ministry,” Douglas said, addressing Arthur instead. He nudged the paper near enough that they could both read it. “It doesn’t name names – well, it _does_ – but look. A muggle man, previously married to Squib Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, Flying Instructor at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, has caused disruptions on the outskirts of Hogsmeade village... it goes into what he wanted...”

Arthur was hurrying up to the staff table before Martin knew what to say.

“I hope they’re alright,” Theresa sighed.

“Of course they are. H-how could they not be? Muggles can’t do anything to do with the Ministry,” Martin reasoned. He watched Arthur talk frantically with his mother, with wide sweeping gestures. “It’s not like his dad can actually cause any trouble-”

“Gordon Shappey can get Carolyn in even deeper hot water than she’s already in with people who have never respected her as they should,” Douglas explained. “All this over an aircraft that’s probably in pieces – if the forest hasn’t consumed it. Anyone would think there was something special about that plane. Arthur supposes it’s hidden treasure.”

“Well that’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the man who helped create _Arthur_.”

Arthur returned within minutes.

“Dad’s been trying to get through Hogsmeade – but he can’t, obviously – he can’t even see it. But he put a tracking thingy in a letter, and addressed it to Hogwarts, and it went to the Hogsmeade Post Office, and that’s how he did it,” he explained, so quickly the words jumbled together. “And Mum’s been getting letters saying he’ll get GERTI back, and he knows she’s keeping it from him – even though she’s not – and he doesn’t care if the BBC gets wind of all the wizards in the country, he just wants his plane back. And Professor McGonagall has another meeting with the governors and some people from the Ministry, but Mum’s saying everything’s fine-”

“Arthur, have you seen this?” Herc appeared from nowhere, tossing another copy of the Prophet into Douglas’ breakfast.

“Yes, thank you for that, Herc,” Douglas drawled loudly. “We were actually discussing the issue before you swanned over.”

“It’s despicable.”

“We _know_.”

“So what do we do?” Arthur asked.

“Did your mother say what she wanted to do?” Douglas asked.

“She said to leave it alone, but _come on_ Douglas, there has to be something clever-”

“Nobody is going to anything,” Theresa interrupted. Jaw set, she looked between them, raising a finger as if daring them to speak. None did, and Martin wondered how she would cope in a few years, when she no longer had a team of players to boss around. She moved slowly, setting the papers aside. “Today we have a match to attend, which Professor Knapp-Shappey will be refereeing. That is the only thing we ought to worry about right now. As for the Ministry, I am sure she is capable of managing them without our help.”

“I agree,” Martin said. The others stared. “I-I mean, we might make it worse. What would we even say?”

Arthur frowned. Before he could speak, Douglas cut in.

“They’re right, Arthur. There’s nothing we can do without making it look even worse.” He sighed and glanced up at the staff table, where Carolyn was in deep discussion with Professor Longbottom. “The match is in half an hour, and I believe you were making us drinks.”

“Hmm... Oh, yeah...”

It was in much lower spirits that Martin headed down to the Quidditch pitch with the rest of his team. He would have rather stayed with the others, but the lure of flying stopped him from hanging around to make stupid decisions. It was a ludicrous thought, Arthur’s father threatening to overturn the Statute of Secrecy for a plane. He’d have his memory wiped if he tried. But still... There was nothing he could do.

~~~

Douglas held the binoculars to his eyes and looked out across the stands.

In the visitors’ section, above the teachers’ seats, he saw the round face of Simon Crieff. The man was talking to Mr Birling. Wonderful, he thought. At least he was pointing up above their heads, to where Martin was performing the same routine drills he had been practicing all week – with the added bonus of a few risky drops and rises, to avoid the Bludgers Theresa was sending his way. Douglas had expected Simon’s presence to throw Martin off his game but if anything, Martin was flying more smoothly than ever. When he flew close enough for him to see his face, he was grinning, having _fun_.

Douglas supposed it had something to do with the fact that Theresa had decided to mark him and only him, expect when Martin led her near to the Slytherin rings.

Without them, the rest of the Slytherin team was scoring all the goals they could using brute strength and shadowing. The Ravenclaw Chasers weaved among the other players, swift and tactile, as though they could feel the way the wind was changing and pulling the Slytherins up short. It was an even match, with both teams trying to out-think the other.

“Aaannnnd... Ravenclaw scores, putting them ninety-five to seventy,” Karl announced. “Like a swarm of flies up there, aren’t they? Whizzing about... Nice work from the Keeper there – Adderly’s doing well, despite the bump to the head earlier.”

“How’s it looking?” Arthur asked. His mood hadn’t improved much, but he was getting into the swing of the match as well as he could. “Can I see?”

Douglas handed him the binoculars.

“I’m sure Martin will do fine, so long as he doesn’t allow Theresa to distract him,” he said, raising a hand to his brow to block the sun. “Ravenclaw’s Seeker isn’t as strong as Theresa would have liked, that’s why she’s marking him, see. She’s making the game into too much of a game – and _oh_ –“ Douglas winced as Theresa shot a Bludger at Martin from so close he tumbled, and hung on with one hand. “Oh, she’s helping him back on, that’s nice of her. He’s lost the Snitch though – must have.”

“Brilliant – I mean, not brilliant for him,” Arthur said. He bounced on his heels, trying to get a clearer view. “I want Martin to win, obviously, but I also want my team to win because they’ll throw a huge party in the common room. You can come if you like – if we win.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

The match dragged on. For every goal Slytherin scored, Ravenclaw matched them. No less than four times, Martin had obviously seen the Snitch and darted down towards it. Every time, Theresa circled him, distracted him, tossed charming smiles over her shoulder that sent him spiralling in the wrong direction. Twice she knocked him clean off his broom, causing him to spend the next ten minutes mounting it again.

Douglas spent half an hour with his head in his hands, wondering why he hadn’t taught Martin how to deal with _other people’s_ dirty tactics.

Then a gasp rippled around the stands.

Douglas looked up in time to see Martin shoot up through a cluster of blue-clad players. Moments later, his hand was raised and Carolyn was blowing her whistle. The green corner of the stands erupted into raucous applause and Douglas wished he had been watching to see just what Martin had done. He watched the team pull him into a crushing hug, dragging him towards the ground in their joy. Beside him, Arthur was cheering and jumping up and down. It was pandemonium.

And yet... Douglas knew he was pleased, but the heavy weight that had settled over his heart the night before remained, clouding the latter half of his mind. He couldn’t even say what was depressing him, other than an amalgam of slowly encroaching not-yet-problems.

By the time Arthur had guided him by the arm down onto the pitch, the crowds were already pouring out of the stands and heading back to the castle. Douglas plastered on a smile as he approached the changing rooms. He pulled Arthur back, encouraging him to slow down, when he saw Theresa and Martin still loitering outside.

There was a vibrant glow about Martin’s face, and a genuine excitement and confidence in the way that he spoke to her. Theresa beamed, as she always did when he was around, and clapped him companionably, gently, almost intimately on the back as she started towards the changing rooms.

“You should be proud of yourself. It’s not often I have so much fun in the air.”

“Y-you were amazing,” Martin replied quickly. “I could barely keep up – g-get away, I mean.”

“Well, I don’t know about _that_ , you pulled some risky moves – but they were good, the sort you see when you watch the League. And you learnt them in only a few months. I must say, I’m impressed,” Theresa said, a parting shot. As she left, she called over her shoulder. “And I expect to see you up bright and early, when the time comes.”

Martin stared after her, looking almost tipsy.

“The time?” Douglas asked.

Martin jumped, and then blushed even darker than before.

“W-well, I-I, um... I think I asked her for a date – a Hogsmeade weekend. I wasn’t really thinking. I just thought, I-I thought we had so much fun, up there, I didn’t want it to end , but – she said yes.”

“Aw, Martin, that’s brilliant.” Arthur bounded over to him.

Douglas stared for a moment. Then he felt himself grin, even if the feeling didn’t sink all the way down. He joined Arthur, swinging an arm around Martin’s shoulders.

“That’s something to tell your brother, isn’t it,” he crowed. “After that win, he’ll be boasting about you for weeks. How about that?”

~~~

The nearest village to Hogsmeade was twenty miles, and Gordon was staying in an expensive hotel a train ride away from _there_. Carolyn hated to make the journey on his account. However, as she was being held accountable for his childish threats, it was worth confronting him and making clear just how badly his actions could affect him. She rather looked forward to the idea of seeing him pale at the thought of the Ministry’s Obliviators. So she had wrapped herself up, taken a Tuesday on which she had no classes, and headed out into the Scottish countryside with what little muggle money she had.

At the hotel, a gaudy stone affair surrounded by trees, she was shown not to his room but to a lounge that must have cost him a small fortune to book.

Gordon was already there, more wrinkled and hunched than the last time she had seen him, but still fit and young enough that she could easily picture him jetting about in GERTI with a sickening scowl. The scotch in his hand did nothing to make him look approachable, although he managed one of his falsely pleasant smiles.

“Carolyn, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Oh, don’t play nice with me, Gordon,” Carolyn replied curtly. She remained close to the door, chin held high. “I didn’t come here for a discussion, I came to tell you where you can stick your cheques, and your threats, and your court summons. And to make you see how foolish you’ve been, marching up to a world you don’t belong in and making demands.”

Gordon watched her a moment, and his nose wrinkled.

“I see – I see, you’ve been shaken up. Caused a fair bit of trouble, did I? You and I both know, those people aren’t sure _you_ belong in their world either.”

“You don’t know nearly as much as you seem to think you do.”

“Arthur’s not been replying to my letters,” Gordon continued. He paced comfortably around the lounge. “He did to begin with – told me he’s interested in flying. Your broomstick nonsense, isn’t that right? Not made for aircraft, that boy. Which makes it even more ridiculous that you’d hold onto GERTI for as long as you have.”

Carolyn sent him a withering glare, and turned her eyes towards the window. She hadn’t known Arthur had been writing to his father – that he was upset, certainly, but not that he had been running interference behind her back. Discomfort squirmed beneath her skin.

“GERTI is gone, Gordon. You sent your goons to steal her, and they crashed – your own hubris come back to haunt you. I told you that – the Headmistress, a respected authority in my world, wrote to tell you that.”

“Planes don’t just disappear.”

“You’ve never been to Hogwarts,” Carolyn retorted. “That’s exactly what they do.”

Gordon’s chest heaved, and his free hand clenched. He stood in front of the window, blocking her view of the sky.

“That’s not a problem. Whole or in pieces, I’m having her back, Carolyn,” he said. “I’m taking her back if I have to drag you through the mud. And you know why?”

“Dare I ask?”

“Because I want her tail fin mounted above my fireplace, stamped with the words Not Your Bloody Jet Anymore, Sweetheart!” Gordon’s temper flared. He jabbed his finger at her from across the room. “I couldn’t care less about the money, or the court case, or any of that bureaucratic waffle. I want you to learn you’re not as clever as you think – I want the pleasure of knowing you haven’t taken all you can from me and scarpered.”

But Carolyn could see the desperation poorly hidden behind his rage. The man was cruel, but he wasn’t stupid – not when it came to his money. Whatever she had that he wanted, she _still_ had it and he would never be getting it back. He couldn’t have it back unless he wandered into the Forest, risking life and limb. She had nothing, but she had all the power.

“You’re forgetting, of course, what’s really important in all this,” Carolyn said slowly. She clasped her hands together. “Arthur has been deeply unsettled by all of this. To save him the misery from this moment on, would you consider a monetary repayment? To settle the lawyers’ curiosity, at least?”

“Not a chance!”

“It would bankrupt me!”

“Didn’t you hear me, I want your pride, woman!”

“You want something, and it’s on my plane!”

“ _My_ plane!”

Gordon was closer now, towering over her. His scotch was abandoned, staining the expensive carpet.

Carolyn took a step back. Then she stopped.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going. If you won’t negotiate, I’m not arguing. I had enough of that when we were married, lord knows,” she said. Then she left the lounge, left the hotel, kept moving until she was on the train, on the bus, walking up the hill to Hogsmeade and through Hogwarts’ grand gates.

It was only when she saw two young men strolling along the edge of the pumpkin patch that Carolyn stopped, escaping her own head.

“Surely, the world must be coming to an end,” she said as Herc and Douglas noticed her and altered their course. Both looked abashed, caught out somewhere they shouldn’t have been – Herc less so, even as his eyes traced the roof of Hagrid’s Hut. Carolyn seized the balm curiosity offered and marched across the muddy earth to meet them. “Don’t play coy with me, boys, what are you up to? I really don’t have it in me to cover your backs if-”

“We’re talking, that’s all,” Douglas replied smoothly.

“We’re discussing your predicament,” Herc said, earning a swift glare from the other boy. He was unconcerned, addressing Carolyn with just enough caution to be considered respectful. “You know it’s in the papers? We were just wondering whether there was anything we could do, for Arthur’s sake, as well as yours.”

“And of course, you went to Douglas, solver of all problems save the ones he causes himself.”

“I went to Douglas because I’ve seen firsthand what happens when he’s at his best.”

“There’s no harm in commiserating with old friends,” Douglas chipped in. Hands in his pockets, he was obviously down, to the eyes of someone who had known him since he was a child. He shrugged and sighed. “Sadly, without escaping via Floo network, I can’t see much we can do to sort out your rascal of an ex.”

“A sharply worded letter might do it,” Herc muttered.

“Gordon doesn’t respond to written word as dearly as the district council,” Carolyn replied.

“I didn’t say which words I would be using,” Herc said. Then he shook his head and turned back towards the castle. “No, I know – it’s not my place. But if the governors want you out, don’t think I won’t arrange a student council or something. There are a lot of good flyers here who wouldn’t know the bristles from the handle of their broom without you.”

In spite of herself, Carolyn was touched. She blamed the setting sun for the lump in her throat. Rather than admit to it, she wrapped her cloak more securely around herself and sniffed sharply. She started towards the castle, slowly enough to bid them farewell.

“Grateful as I am, there will be retribution if I discover you’ve been poking your noses into my business. In the meantime, do continue as you were. Don’t let me interrupt your darling boys’ night out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter, I don't know how long it's been. This one was weird, because I planned to spend two more chapters preparing for the Ravenclaw match, only to realise last chapter was the night before. Oops. So there was some hasty re-planning.  
> Hope you enjoyed this installment, next one whenever I get my act together.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 “They are lovely, Douglas, but I am not sure why I would take them from you when my parents could easily get me some,” Theresa said. She admired the pair of hand-crafted leather Beater’s gloves from her perch on the banister in the Great Hall.

Douglas watched, leaning against the same banister, hands in his pockets.

“You would take them, my dear, for the joy of playing the game. This is much more fun that letting your ludicrously wealthy parents pay for them.”

“Ludicrous is what _this_ is,” Theresa replied. She slipped one glove onto her hand, beneath her thick jumper, and flexed her fingers. “And from what I know of your game, I’m sure you have many, many gloves just like this, and that the stitching is sub-standard at best.”

“How dare you imply such a thing?” Douglas thrust a hand over his heart, aghast for show. “I’ll have you know my friend is a craftsman with too much time on her hands. Trade sub-standard goods, I ask you.”

“Hmmm... they _are_ nice.”

While Theresa hummed over the gloves, Douglas gazed about the crowds of students laughing and making their way through the grand oak doors, today propped wide open. It was Hogsmeade weekend, so the castle would be quiet soon. He rather looked forward to it. He had turned down Arthur’s offer to visit Honeydukes together, despite wanting more Sugar Quills. It was a shame really. But he was feeling lighter than he had in weeks – hadn’t noticed until they were gone the dark clouds hanging over him – and felt it was probably time make a slow start on the essays that were building up.

“They’ll save you a fortune in smashed watches,” Douglas said.

“And what should I trade you in return, Douglas? I haven’t got dozens on anything to give you,” Theresa replied. Her eyes caught on something over Douglas’ shoulder. “Ah, there you are! What do you say, Martin?”

Douglas turned in time to see Martin emerge from the Dungeons.

“What is it? Oh, you’re not still trading are you?” Martin said. He elbowed Douglas as he passed, rolling his eyes as Theresa passed him the gloves. They were immediately tossed back into Douglas’ lap. “Don’t take anything off him, Theresa. He’ll hold it over you forever. I only asked him to pass the rolls last week and he keeps making me fetch him biscuits and cups of tea at odd times of day.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” Douglas sighed. “Are you two off then?”

“O-off?” Martin repeated. His eyes darted towards Theresa as she hopped to her feet and brushed down her long coat. “O-oh, yes. Y-yes, I mean. We’re um – I told you already, didn’t I? We’re just going round the shops.”

Theresa slipped her arm through his.

“Finally, the date I was promised.”

“Right, y-yes, the _date_.”

“Well good luck, _and all_ ,” Douglas drawled. He watched them leave, winking at Martin when the boy glanced nervously over his shoulder. It seemed to work, as he flustered irritably and turned back, walking less like a man who wanted to escape.

After a moment, Douglas sighed and pulled his bag onto his lap. He supposed he ought to get moving. There was no sense in sitting alone in the Entrance Hall. He extracted his planner, which was stuffed with random slips of paper – Martin’s work. An ineffectual attempt to keep him on track, along with messages Arthur had slipped him during Carolyn’s flying lessons. Right in the centre, where he dared not look, were the leaflets reminding him that there this weekend there were lectures available for Seventh Years.

Whoever had decided they needed constant reminding that the future was looming nearer needed their head examined.

Douglas for one wasn’t about to leave him homework any longer just so he could attempt another talk from another professional who already had their life sorted out. Every time he did, he left with a heavier heart.

“Douglas!”

Shaking himself from his reverie, Douglas looked up.

Herc Shipwright was already halfway across the hall. There was no escape. The fact that his arms were full of books and papers wasn’t at all comforting. Neither did the way Herc dropped down at the bottom of the stairs, forcing Douglas to do the same. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he set his books back in order.

“Going to be a long conversation, is it?” Douglas inquired.

“Just a moment,” Herc muttered. Then he sat upright, nodded to himself, and folded his hands over the cargo in his lap. “I need a favour.”

“Ah...”

“I wanted to ask you about the muggle world.”

“It’s right outside, Herc. Go and explore, by all means,” Douglas said.

He waved a hand towards the open doors, trying not to glare enviously at the sound of students enjoying themselves. Distant splashes echoed off the lake. Part of him bristled, although he hid it easily. He wasn’t ashamed of his upbringing at all, but he had endured years of questions that he didn’t have the time or energy for.

“Yes, you’re hilarious, Douglas. Would I be here if I didn’t genuinely need your exemplary knowledge and understanding?” Herc replied briskly. He paused only a moment before continuing. “Good, now the flattery’s been seen to, I need your help. I need to know how best to navigate the muggle world as someone who has never needed to-”

Douglas frowned.

“Navigate here meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve been sitting in lectures all morning and I’ve decided to pursue a career in the muggle world.”

For a moment, Douglas stared. He stared long enough that he saw Herc’s expression shift, and hastily shook himself so that he couldn’t be accused of being speechless.

“You _are_ joking?”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. I need to know exactly how to get into certain training programmes without having ever existed in the muggle world,” Herc explained. Glancing over his shoulder, towards a gaggle of Second Years heading to lunch, he lowered his voice. “The only problem with my plan is that I don’t know the proper procedure for this kind of thing. Even the muggleborn staff aren’t very helpful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect so what with them choosing to live their life in an enchanted castle,” Douglas said, eyebrows rising.

It was clear that Herc was serious. Letting out a long breath, he whistled through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. He leant back, propping himself on his elbows, and then decided against the motion. It was too casual for the moment. Serious thought demanded elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.

“Herc... Much as I enjoy the idea of having something to hold over you... What is it you actually want? I’ve spent a few months back home in the past seven years. It’s not like I’m keeping up with the latest working trends.”

And in truth, he wasn’t even sure how to sort his own future.

Herc shifted uncomfortably, and then seemed to steel himself. He was the sort of boy who took his Gryffindor mantra to heart, pleased to find a cause in anything and everything. Just last year he had stopped eating meat because he had realised – halfway through a Sunday roast – that animals were living creatures. It may have been Douglas’ fault, but still... The look on his face was the same as the one he had worn then as he dedicated himself to a new cause.

“I want to apply to one of those schools that teach you how to fly aircraft,” he said.

Douglas’ eyebrows rose even higher.

“I’ve been thinking long and hard about this, Douglas,” Herc continued. He gripped his books so tightly Douglas suspected they contained all manner of aviation information. “Flying is my life, but spending the rest of it playing game after game... Where’s the sense in that? What could I possibly learn, or make of myself? But I want to be in the air. Think about it – a brave new world, an adventure of sorts, learning a new discipline, travelling while I’m at it. No one could say I didn’t make something of myself.”

“Got something to prove have you?”

“Do you remember those stories Carolyn used to tell us, when we were twelve, about her time as a stewardess? And all those pictures on her wall? Let’s say I was inspired by them. I can’t spend my life in a rut – I have to venture forth and I... I have no idea how to get into one of those schools and actually learn how to fly planes.”

“Well...” Douglas didn’t know what to say.

All of a sudden, he was reminded of Martin, the first time they had had a real conversation. The boy hadn’t mentioned planes once since he had joined the Slytherin team, but he was sure if anyone would answer Herc’s questions, it would be him. Back then, Douglas had thought it was a mad dream. Stubborn determination was a lot more convincing when Herc was the one lugging it around.

“Well, I... I suppose you would need identification... A passport, medical records, birth certificate, things like that,” Douglas said eventually. He shrugged. “And they would want to see your qualifications. All of which would need to be forged, you understand? I have the lot, but I don’t suppose wizards do?”

“I have a birth certificate,” Herc replied.

“Is it stamped by the Ministry of Magic?”

“...Yes.”

“Right then,” Douglas concluded. From the corner of his eye, he saw Herc’s head drop. Despite himself, his heart ached in sympathy. He resisted the urge to comfort him for a minute at most, then grimaced and patted Herc’s shoulder. “Come on, now... I’m sure if you proved you were serious, the Ministry or McGonagall would be glad to forge you some documents.”

“Perhaps...”

“Do you... Do you really want to fly aeroplanes? I mean, it’s not just some convoluted plan to get Carolyn on side?”

The look Herc sent him was enough to shut him up.

“I want to do something worthwhile,” Herc said. “I don’t want to sit down at one hundred and three and realise I spent my whole life whizzing around a Quidditch pitch. Where’s the courage in that?”

Douglas nodded slowly.

“I can’t say courage is ever top of my list of priorities to be honest. I’ve got more important things to be going about with.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You haven’t been at any of the lectures,” Herc remarked, just as Douglas was beginning to resent his presence just a little less.

“I already know what I’m going to do,” Douglas said dryly. He forced himself not to reach protectively for his bag, where the leaflets and letters from his parents were still buried amidst rolls of parchment with low grades inked in red. “I haven’t applied to St Mungo’s yet, obviously... wouldn’t want to seem too keen...”

“So you’re sticking with Healing?”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re not even going to consider Quidditch?”

“No team’s going to hire me,” Douglas replied. He stood abruptly, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Which is irrelevant, because I want to be a Healer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be, as you well know. I’m not throwing that away for a hobby, or on a _whim_ like some people I could name.”

He turned to leave, but Herc was at his side in seconds.

“You should at least attend some of the speeches. They’ve got some decent people in – Captains and trainers, and Healers too,” Herc said. When Douglas didn’t stop, he caught him by the arm. Oblivious to Douglas’ glare, he flicked through his books and found one leaflet in particular. He held it out, maintaining a stony silence until Douglas took it. “You’d like this one. Rory Greenhill, you know-”

“I know who Rory Greenhill is,” Douglas said brusquely. He ignored the way his heart skipped in excitement. It was a name he had seen a dozen times at most in the Daily Prophet.

“Give it a go then,” Herc instructed. “Don’t make a decision too quickly. And thanks for the help, I suppose... I’ll ask Professor Longbottom what he thinks.”

With that, Herc was gone, and Douglas was left staring at the leaflet, standing bewildered in the centre of the Entrance Hall.

~~~

Spring had brought with it warmer breezes and less leaves on the ground, but Martin was still buttoned as much as he could get, hugging his coat as nervous chills crept up on him.

The day had gone well so far. Nothing to complain about. No reason to worry.

Theresa had led him down to Hogsmeade by the hand when she realised – or perhaps she hadn’t realised, but had grown impatient – the way Martin stole frequent glances at the point where her arm crooked through his. He didn’t think his cheeks had stopped burning once since they had left Hogwarts’ grounds. They were good friends, he reminded himself. They had toured the shops like it was any other day. They had laughed and talked, and there were about twelve sparklers tucked into his pockets, which unlike hers were large enough to hold them. So there was no need to worry... not at all...

Except his chest was filled with white-hot butterflies, sweet as honey, that refused to stop flittering about, and his cheeks were warm, and he couldn’t stop glancing at her. It was worst when he caught _her_ looking at _him_.

Theresa lips were permanently curled, it seemed. He hadn’t ever really noticed before.

It was when they were in the Three Broomsticks, sipping butterbeer, that he noticed the way she was either smiling with a warmth in her dark eyes that made her whole body glow, or pursing those lips as her brow pinched subtly with thought.

He wished he knew what she was thinking.

This was a lot easier when she was trying to kill him on the Quidditch pitch.

And it was _too_ easy. Girls didn’t typically leave him capable of forming coherent sentences.

Now they were heading back towards the school, up the uneven slope, and Theresa’s arm was hooked through his again. It could have been intimate. It could also have been an attempt to keep him on his feet. He had tripped twice already.

“ _Martin.._.”

Martin jumped at the sound of his name, stretched perfectly by Theresa’s silky voice.

“Y-yes?”

Theresa sighed and tilted her head to the side, letting her hair slip past her cheek. In doing so, she pulled closer to him, never slowing her pace. Her free hand rested on his arm as well, a reassuring if not discomforting weight.

“Martin, have I ever considered you anything but delightful?”

Martin’s cheeks burned even hotter, but his confusion won out.

“Wh-what? No, I don’t think so.”

This time, Theresa pulled him to a stop beneath the barren branches of an oak. At the edge of the path, they were alone. The wind carded through the trees, filling the air with soft cracks, keeping the silence at bay.

“Then stop looking away when I try to gaze into your eyes,” Theresa said. Her eyes never left his as her thumb began rubbing small circles. She was quiet a moment longer, and then said far more softly. “You are not mistaken.”

“M-mistaken... Oh... o-oh...” Martin gulped, but he understood quickly.

Quickly enough that he didn’t flinch when Theresa rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. The kiss lasted only a moment. It was still one of the most dizzying experiences Martin had ever had. He was keenly aware of her hand on his arm, even if he had closed his eyes, blocking out the world.

When he opened them again, Theresa was watching him closely.

She smiled softly, eyes dancing with riddles, and gave his arm a tug.

“Come on, it’s getting colder. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to wish I _had_ taken Douglas’ gloves. At least I wouldn’t get frostbite.”

“Y-you could hold my hand,” Martin suggested, and then ducked his head.

Theresa laughed, but she did just that. The trek back up to the castle was considerably more awkward, but Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to undo that. Not while his head was still spinning at least.

~~~

It wasn’t in Douglas’ nature to admit to being star-struck, but he didn’t know how else to explain the giddy sense of hope that was burning brightly in his chest. From the back of the classroom, he watched with rapt attention. How could he ever have considered skipping this lecture? The thought was maddess.

Lorelai Greenhill – Rory, she told the Seventh Years to call her – was a dream.

The woman was nearing sixty, hair on the brink of turning wiry where it was fastened above faint wrinkles and her middle-eastern visage. If Douglas had ever seen a photograph of a fighter pilot, this was how she dressed – like the magical equivalent. And she moved with such energy for a woman of her age. She was sharp and _funny_ , cutting down those students that slumped at their desks and quoting Shakespeare incorrectly.

Rory had started the lecture with introductions.

Grandparents from Pakistan, she had explained – Father a veteran of the Royal Airforce despite the prejudices of the time, Mother a clerk in a busy office, running the place by all rights – all muggles who had never stepped foot in Hogwarts, but had thought Diagon Alley could use a some renewed safety inspections. It didn’t matter, she had said, where you came from. It didn’t matter how long magic had been in your family. It didn’t matter what you thought of the wars that had passed in the Wizarding World – there was a wrong side and a right, and you better hope you were on the right one.

None of it mattered – she could still outstrip every one of them on a broom.

She still told Jutteau to zip his trap when he sniggered.

Rory Greenhill had been Hufflepuff’s star player for six long years and never played a single game of professional Quidditch in her life. She had trained the best teams – trained them _all_ at one point or another. She travelled across the world learning techniques from far-off countries and coaching her own teams. There were teams that hadn’t existed thirty years ago that were top of the league because she had seen stars in the crowds of hopefuls that clamoured to her sessions.

Then there was her _other_ career... her _travels_... adventures even, although she wouldn’t call them that. There were the friends she made, the feats she performed, the jobs she had done – the battles she had fought during the last war.

Rory never said Voldemort’s name, but her silence resonated louder than words.

During the war, Rory had been a smuggler of sorts – a talent when it came to aerial assaults and search parties. She had crossed borders, done all manner of things. The broom that lay across Professor Flitwick’s desk was chipped and bent at the bristles, but it had seen more than she had – she had closed her eyes through some of it, she said. She had had to. And then she had come home, continued to travel, returned to a life of travel, and coaching, and playing games that never made it into the league.

No one pitch confined her.

Douglas wasn’t sure he had ever fallen so swiftly and irrevocably into utter idolisation in his life.

The woman was incredible. Rory Greenhill was his hero... muggleborn, Hufflepuff, completely unaffected by what anyone thought of her. When she threw questions to the crowd, quizzing the class, Douglas actually raised his hand.

He ignored Carolyn’s scoff from the back of the classroom when he himself laughed at one of Rory’s jokes.

At the end of the lecture, while the rest of the Seventh Years filtered out, Douglas loitered at the back of the classroom with Carolyn. He clutched his notebook to his chest, needing something to do with his hands. St Mungo’s leaflet poked from the top, but he had stopped staring at it the moment Rory had started talking.

“You liked her then?” Carolyn asked, ushering the last of the stragglers from the room. “I thought you might.”

“I didn’t know you knew Lorelai Greenhill,” Douglas replied.

“What do you think I do all day? Sit around thinking up broomstick safety features?”

“They could use some.”

At that moment, Rory herself strode across the classroom to meet them. She extended her hand for Carolyn to shake, confident smile gleaming in the way she carried herself. She could even be said to swagger.

“I’ll shake your hand again, Carolyn. Never hurts to make your point clear. My point _being_ that you put together a decent gathering. _Most_ of them were paying attention. All the better I didn’t flub that story from Rio like I did last month,” Rory said cheerfully. She gave a dramatic grimace, and then fixed Douglas with a keen look and a stern finger. “You, young man – Richardson was it?”

“Douglas,” Douglas replied, rooted to the spot.

“Good lad, Douglas. You were quick off the mark with the answers back there – and none learned from any book,” Rory said. “You a player yourself or just particularly bright?”

Douglas found himself painfully lost for words. He was too busy fighting giddiness in his stomach, clutching his notebook tight so that she wouldn’t see the hospital’s leaflet sticking from the top.

“Loathe as I am to admit it, Rory, Douglas is one of our brightest. Let’s leave it at that and save his ego another boost,” Carolyn said. But she laid a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. He vaguely heard her talking over his head. “Douglas was actually the Hufflepuff Captain for a few years.”

“Is that so?” Rory smiled.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I haven’t had a single Ma’am from you in seven years,” Carolyn exclaimed.

“Yes, I used to play,” Douglas said, finding his voice. He cast Carolyn a helpless glance and forced himself to look Rory in the eye. It made it harder to measure his expression and try and seem his charming self. “But I... I’ve moved onto better things, I think.”

“Whatever he tells you, Rory, he’s a good lad,” Carolyn interrupted. She didn’t give Douglas time to be more than surprised before carrying on, squeezing his shoulder again. “He’s spent the past few years helping me with the younger students’ flying lessons – the hard toil, you know. The nitty-gritty I’d rather not do. And he’s been training his own little band of players in his free time to boot. Douglas has a particular talent for quick thinking on the pitch as well as on the ground – the drills he’s been teaching my Arthur. He could put me to shame.”

Rory nodded thoughtfully. One hand on her waist, a finger to her chin, she assessed him.

Douglas wished he could sink into the ground. At the same time, he didn’t – craving her approval so much he thought he might melt.

“Are you considering a placement on one of the league teams, lad?”

“No, Ma’am. I, ah... I do enjoy playing, but... I don’t think the pitch is for me.”

“For me neither,” Rory agreed with a sage nod. “I couldn’t be confined to set of stands – one set of rules, the same start and end whistle every few months. There’s something grand in seeing the talent grow in others though – in knowing you’ve helped nurture that. You enjoy training your peers?”

“Martin’s come on wonders – and Arthur, of course.”

“How do you feel about travel?”

“My brother travels a lot – he’s a muggle. I... I’ve always fancied it, I suppose,” Douglas said. He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck, or fidget as he never did. He didn’t know where this was going, but he couldn’t make his tongue lie or embellish. “I’ve always been rather aware that the world is bigger than these castle walls and Diagon Alley.”

“And he _was_ considering a Quidditch career before his change of heart,” Carolyn chipped in.

Rory was silent for an agonising moment. Then she stepped a little closer, surveying him properly. She seemed to have a silent conversation with Carolyn over his head. Without a word, she turned back to the desk, retrieved her broom, and tossed it through the air. Douglas caught it quickly, turning it the right way, glancing over it to make sure he hadn’t scuffed the handle or snapped any bristles. When he looked up, Rory was nodding slowly.

“Well, you’re certainly a natural at _holding_ a broom. Quick reactions – and a reactionary approach to assessing damage with little warning,” she said. “You work hard, Douglas?” Douglas nodded and she smiled. “I wouldn’t expect less from my house... Well, I would, matter of fact, but that’s that. Give me a fact.”

“A fact, Ma’am?”

“I want to know you’re not boring.”

“I-I, ah... I...” Douglas grasped desperately for something related to flying, and found nothing. “I suppose... I play piano – No, that’s not a fact-”

“It’ll do, lad,” Rory stopped him with a raised hand. As she shook her head, still smiling, Douglas felt a pang of sympathy for Martin which he swiftly dismissed. This was worse, he thought, until Rory nodded and fixed him with another stern point. “Now, this is just an offer – an idea, lad, but I’ll let you hold onto it. Carolyn knows how to contact me if you make a decision.”

“A decision?”

“I’ve been thinking for a while that this is a lonely life I’ve led. It’s not even technically a job. There are trainers of course, but I do a lot more – the travel, the training schemes, the charitable work... the more underhand side of my chosen career. There’s adventure involved, some risk too, and a lot of giving. You need heart and I... I’m getting older,” Rory said. She sighed and shrugged. “I’ve another fifty years in me, I reckon. It’ll take a lot to knock me off my perch. I’ve gotten as far as I have because I believe in something – because I like working with _people_ and seeing the world. I’d be willing to take you on as an apprentice, if you _were_ considering a career in Flight.”

Douglas gaped, nodding without thinking.

“I think he’ll take a few days to consider it,” Carolyn said.

“Obviously. Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Rory replied. “Now, shall we see me out before those dreadful governors drag me to another dinner?”

Douglas wasn’t fully aware of them leaving. One of them patted his shoulder. He was left with the strange, sickly realisation that Carolyn had set him up somehow. An apprenticeship? His life on a broom? He may not be a league player, but it was... Well, it was... How would he ever explain it to his parents? He looked down at St Mungo’s crest, peeking out from his notebook.

A little bit dizzy, Douglas wandered into the corridor and slowly made his way towards Hufflepuff’s common room.

Somewhere near the Great Hall,  he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Dougie, my boy, long time no see.”

“Mr Birling... hello, sir,” Douglas replied. He attempted a smile as he took in the old man, smartly dressed, hip-flask tucked into his outer pocket. “Meeting the lecturers, are you?”

“Something like that,” Mr Birling muttered.

It looked for a moment as though he might amble into the hall in search of dinner. Douglas was glad of it. He was about to turn. Then Mr Birling stopped him, clearing his throat and searching his pockets.

“Say, Dougie, you still run that little betting pool of yours, don’t you?”

“Occasionally.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the upcoming match – the last of the season, dear boy. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Pride of my house is on the line,” Mr Birling said. He seemed to have found whatever he needed in his jangling pockets, but didn’t retrieve it. He did come in closer though, lowering his voice. “I’ve been in a generous mood lately. Rather fancy a little bet – a few thousand galleons on Gryffindor to win, hey?”

Still baffled from before, Douglas could only frown.

“Wouldn’t a professional bookie be a better choice when that kind of money is involved?”

“Ah, but you see, I’m ever so fond of how well you look after us all in the top box,” Mr Birling replied, and it was clear he knew full well that Douglas only ever visited the top box on that one match a year that Mr Birling attended without fail. “You’re fantastic at toadying, you really are. I can’t make any _promises_ , of course, but I’m sure if Gryffindor were to win I might be inclined to match my original bet in the form of a very large reward for all those complimentary scotches, and the cushioned seat, and whatever else you have hidden up your sleeve this year. You could use the money, couldn’t you?”

“Well, that’s certainly a proposition,” Douglas said, forcing his voice to remain level. He _could_ use the money, for so many things.

But if Gryffindor won, Martin lost.

“So what will it be? Shall I write an IOU for the galleons or leave a deposit?” Mr Birling asked. His hand was already extended, flat and ready to seal the deal.

Douglas stared at the hand.

His head was still spinning. He wasn’t sure what was the right answer. A tugging near his ribcage drew his willpower to a shuddering halt. It was a lot of money – a thousand Galleons at least, and a thousand things to do with it. An uncertain future with a little more security, so easily done.

Slowly, he took Mr Birling’s hand.

“An IOU will do nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter!  
> Finished chapter of novel at 4:30, finished this at 8:00, it is so horribly rushed but some bits I'm quite proud of. Hope you enjoy this, as it's kind of kicking us into the climax.  
> Thanks for reading : )


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

High above the pitch, in the midday sun, Martin was a streak of green amidst blue and white. The balls had all been enchanted to pursue him. He was taking it in his stride, Douglas thought, if he ignored the frantic yells that floated down to him on the ground. Every now and then, Theresa would soar from the stands with the sole intention of creating a collision, but she otherwise concealed herself for the element of surprise. Arthur joined in every now and then, but the boy was more worried about the loops he was performing closer to the ground.

Overall, the training session was a success.

Douglas couldn’t find a single reason to complain. He remained on the ground, with a bitter sense of having done everything right. It wasn’t fair. He had written to Rory Greenhill, thanking her for her generosity but informing her that he had already applied for St Mungo’s. Then he had sent his application to St Mungo’s, just to make sure he couldn’t back down.

It wasn’t fair at all.

It would have been easier if Martin and Arthur were terrible in the air. At least that way he could say he was bowing out with pride.

Sighing, Douglas dropped onto the crate the balls were stored in and propped his chin on his cheek. The wind blew his fringe in his eyes, but he shook it away. The last few weeks had been a dubious stretch of contemplation and churning guts.

He had accepted Mr Birling’s bet. How could he not?

More importantly, how could he ensure that Gryffindor won the last game of the season?

How would he face Martin’s disappointment? How to get away with it without having that sour mood aimed at him? And how to stomach Herc’s smug face?

It would have to be done carefully.

Douglas knew he could simply allow for Martin’s natural clumsiness to overwhelm him, if the pressure grew too much. He couldn’t do it though. There would be no pride in whispering doubt into Martin’s ear, or letting the training slide. It would have to be done with stealth, and brains... if it were done at all.

He could just abandon the money...

The IOU was safely stashed in his inner pocket. Douglas retrieved it, listening to Martin’s pained yelp as he dangled from his broom, Theresa circling him from above. The paper was crumpled at the edges where he had looked at it whenever his nerves shook.

It was a hefty sum. Whether his parents supported him or not – and he sincerely hoped they wouldn’t need to – it would be mad to turn it down.

“What’s that?”

Douglas jumped.

He hadn’t seen Arthur descend from above, but he heard the thump as Arthur dropped to the ground beside him, tossing his broom to the ground with so little care it was no wonder he would never make a Quidditch player.

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? Let’s see,” Arthur said, and took the sheet of parchment. He frowned at the number, then his eyes widened. “Wow... That’s a lot of Galleons.”

“It’s not really, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Why’ve you got it written down?” Arthur asked, returning it. He watched Douglas tuck it into his robes, and then said, “But that’s not your writing, is it? Unless you’ve changed it – which would be a shame. You’ve got brilliant handwriting.”

Douglas swallowed the lump in his throat and set his shoulders back.

“It’s a bet, from Mr Birling,” he said. “He thinks Gryffindor will win.”

“Oh...”

“He’s not really fussed about getting money back off me. The bet’s only a small sum. He knows I can’t stump up the funds to even double his money if he puts more on the books. I suppose if I refuse to take bets from any other Gryffindor supporters, I’ll have the money the Slytherins lose, and I can pay him with that. That would be something. But if he wins his bet, he’ll give me a sizeable tip,” Douglas admitted with a shrug. “Not conventional – and it doesn’t really benefit him at all, unless he wants to boast in front of the other governors.”

“And if Slytherin win, you’ll get his money anyway,” Arthur said brightly.

“The bet’s not important. I told you, there are Ravenclaws who put down more than he has,” Douglas sighed. “What’s important is keeping that man happy enough to lavish me with gold when I take him his favourite whiskey.”

Arthur nodded sagely and gazed up at the others, high above their heads.

“Douglas...”

“Yes, Arthur?”

“You’re not...” Arthur hesitated, hoisting himself up with an arm slung over the ball crate. He looked up at Douglas with a troubling amount of clarity, forcing him to look away. “You’re not thinking of _making_ Gryffindor win, are you? ‘Cos I know what you’re like – and it’s great – but we’ve worked so hard to help Martin do well.”

Douglas smiled and shook his head.

“Of course I’m not going to _make_ anything happen. What do you think of me?”

“I think sometimes you’re...”

“I’m not going to cheat, Arthur,” Douglas snapped, and then reined his temper in. He ignored Arthur’s stare and rubbed his hands over his knees. Was the Summer getting colder? He wrapped his robes more securely around himself and cleared his throat. “Of all people, you should know better. Would I really betray all _my_ hard work and let _Hercules Shipwright_ have something to lord over me for the next twenty years – and he _will_. He’ll write to me. It won’t matter that we won’t have spoken for a decade. He’ll slip reminders into Christmas cards. As if I’d put myself through anything so gruesome.”

Douglas stopped himself from rambling, lurching to his feet.

“Martin! Don’t let her distract you – how many times?” He yelled into the air.

Martin waved his middle finger vaguely in his direction, but conceded not to change direction every time Theresa weaved in front of a Bludger to hide its path to him.

When he turned back, Arthur was still watching him.

“Don’t you have your own problems to trouble yourself over?” Douglas demanded.

Arthur shrugged and hopped to his feet.

“Yeah, you know I do,” he said. “But I just... No, you’re right. I’m probably just being silly. Dad’s been writing again – nice things this time – and I’m not sure whether... I keep thinking about how sometimes people don’t say what they mean. Sorry, Douglas.”

Douglas’ heart dropped. With another sigh – he was doing that a lot lately – he swung an arm around Arthur’s shoulders.

“Trust me, Arthur. Sometimes life lays itself out in front of you, and other times it’s a maze – but mostly, you just go where it takes you. You’ve a few years before you have to second guess anything, alright? Your father can blow off steam all he likes, but if he tries anything the Ministry will set his straight – if your mother doesn’t catch him first,” Douglas waited for Arthur to nod before continuing bracingly. “All you need to worry about is how warm to wrap up when the game rolls around. I won’t be joining you in the stands – not with Birling demanding all manner of toadying – but I’ll be expecting you hale and hearty for the after-game party. My common room, alright?”

Arthur lit up, pulling Douglas into a one-armed hug.

“Brilliant! I’ll ask the house-elves to make red and green cakes, just in case.”

~~~

With Martin and Theresa locked in the Great Hall for their exams, and Douglas off somewhere doing whatever it was Douglas did when he was alone, Arthur had a few hours peace. He would have rather had company. Much as he enjoyed having time to mull over his thoughts, of which there were many, Arthur wasn’t so keen on what had been troubling him. So he lounged by the lake, his History of Magic textbook open on his lap, watching Tiffy skip stones towards the Giant Squid.

“Where do you think the Goblins go to school?” Arthur scratched his nose. “They can’t just be going to war all the time. But I only ever see them at Gringotts, or in the Leaky Cauldron, sometimes. Where do they even live?”

“Mummy says they wouldn’t be so possessive when it came to the bank if wizards hadn’t made it completely uncomfortable for Goblins to participate otherwise in wizarding society,” Tiffy replied, nose scrunching with concentration as she recited words that definitely weren’t her own. She tossed a stone from hand to hand. “If they weren’t so unwelcome, they might be actors, or teachers, or anything. Why do you ask? You’ve never been that interested before.”

“I’m interested in all sorts of things.”

“Well, yes...”

Arthur shrugged and closed his book. He watched the water sparkle in the sunlight where the squid flicked it up.

“I just don’t really understand anything in here,” he said, raising the book. “And Mum hasn’t got time to be going through all my work with me, so I’m getting distracted. Professor Binns hasn’t said anything about Goblins _nowadays_.”

“Distracted is good, sometimes.” Tiffy tossed the last stone. Then she turned back. “Is your Mum still so busy? Has something else happened?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked down, pulling at the grass.

“Arthur, you’re not a good liar.”

“I haven’t... I haven’t _told_ Mum about what Dad’s been writing,” Arthur said. “It’s nothing _bad_ , but he’s also keeps telling _her_ he’s going to bring muggles to the school, or that he’s going to take all her money, or... I don’t know. So it doesn’t make sense that he’s being so nice when he writes to me. Maybe paying him enough to pay for GERTI would make him happy... I don’t know. There’s nothing I can do about it, is there?”

Again, Arthur shrugged. He knew Tiffy was watching him, hands on her hips, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

“No, there’s nothing you can do,” she said. “And I think you should stop worrying. Whatever your Dad says or does, he can’t really _do_ anything. Anyway, what your Mum really has to worry about is... Well, it’s not very nice, but people are cruel, aren’t they? So you won’t help her by grousing about.”

It wasn’t clever the way Douglas was clever, but it made Arthur smile.

By the time they headed back to the castle, Arthur’s mood had lifted tremendously. It didn’t even droop when he spotted his cousin – second cousin? – Kieran outside the greenhouses with a group of his friends, all of whom were older than him. His tie was perfectly tied, his shirt tucked in, and he held a stack of papers that he hastily hid behind his back when he saw Arthur and Tiffy approach.

“Are you starting a club?” Arthur asked.

“No.”

Eyes wide, Kieran tipped up his chin in the way that made Arthur think _he_ thought he knew better, even though Arthur was older.

“Then what are those, behind your back?” Arthur asked.

“There are no rules saying students can’t produce their own literature – or take executive action,” Kieran said primly.  “And there’s nothing to say I can’t gather support, spread the word, get some political experience for my resumé...”

Arthur had no idea what he was talking about.

Beside him, Tiffy huffed and blew her hair from her eyes. In a flash, she reached out and snatched the papers from behind Kieran’s back. The boy was a foot shorter than her, and he tried to swipe at her, but ended up hunched over on the ground, scrambling to his feet, as she flicked out the stack of parchment. Forcing himself not to grin unpleasantly at Kieran – it didn’t matter how un-brilliant his cousin was, he had to be the bigger person, _apparently_ – Arthur peered over Tiffy shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“What on _earth_ do you think you’re doing? Merlin, you’re a detestable _wart_ ,” Tiffy said before Kieran could do more than open his mouth and raise a finger. “It’s a petition, Arthur, to get your Mum removed from her teaching post.”

Arthur took the petition and read it over. He didn’t really understand half the things Kieran had written, but he knew to scowl at him over the top.

“Why would you do that? She’s your _aunt_!”

“My Mum agrees that Auntie Carolyn isn’t qualified for the position. And with her husband-”

“Dad’s not her husband anymore!”

“With her ­ _ex-_ husband causing trouble, we’ve decided – my friends and I – that it would be best for everyone that Hogwarts didn’t employ a Squib with such strong connections to the muggle world,” Kieran explained, enunciating clearly. “It’s nothing personal. I like Auntie Carolyn. But if we’re to have the best possible future, we can’t allow sub-standard teaching to hinder our success. I’ve been reading ‘ _The Path to Success_ ’ by Miss Skeeter, and-”

“Mum put you top of the list for Slytherin’s try-outs next year!” Arthur exclaimed.

“And I’m very grateful for all the support I’ve received-”

~~~

It was a miserable situation, battling with guilt.

Douglas had spent most of his classes with his head in his hands, tapping his quill against the edge of his desk. It probably hadn’t helped his grades in any way. Now he shirked his classmates and traversed the moving staircases, letting them lead him on a winding path up to one of the few people whose judgement he valued. Nothing would change his mind, but he was troubled and needed to ease his mind.

Carolyn’s door was shut when he arrived.

Douglas leaned against the far wall, twiddling his wand until it opened.

A man he vaguely recognised exited.

Douglas waited for the man to disappear before entering. He paid Carolyn no attention as she set her drinks cupboard to rights and fussed over the papers on her desk. Instead, he made himself comfortable in the chair in front of the desk, taking strength from how uncomfortable it was. For a moment, he left his bag in his lap. Then he decided fiddling was too much of a tell and dropped it to the floor.

“Another governors’ meeting?” he asked. “That was Mr...”

“Mr Alyakin,” Carolyn replied. She sat behind her desk, nudged a photograph back into place at right angles to her pot of quills, and tented her hands. “He’s not as foul as some of them – not that I can stand him.”

“Is he the one that calls you-”

“Babushka, yes, but for now that seems to be working in my favour.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow. His own plight was forgotten.

“Isn’t Mr Alyakin normally absent from the governors’ meetings? He’s a businessman of sorts?”

“Yes, he is.”

“So why is he meeting a Flying Instructor in the middle of the day?”

Carolyn nodded to herself, and frowned in thought. Then she rose and paced slowly around the office. As Douglas turned to keep her in his sights, he noticed the two glasses that had once held something glistening. He wanted to ask, but held his tongue. The more time he had to waste, the easier he could breathe.

“Mr Alyakin’s business relies on reliable flight – whether it’s the moving of cargo, or guiding potential customers from place to place. He tells me he’s had trouble in the past. People get distracted, or they don’t have the right kind of attitude... Well... The job would be similar to what I was doing as a stewardess, with more responsibility, a leadership role,” Carolyn said slowly. She noticed Douglas’ expression, and must have understood his confusion as she sighed and stopped pacing. “It’s hardly a secret that my position here is precarious at best. Mr Alyakin, however, is rather impressed by whichever qualities he think I exhibit. And given Gordon’s refusal to keep his nose out of my business, it may be a good idea to stretch my wings a little... give Arthur a break from the rumours, and difficulties...”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been offered a job. One which would involve travel and a weighty paycheque.”

Douglas gaped. He was aware of turning fully in his seat – gripping the back of the chair. He hastily shut his mouth. Then he shook himself.

“You can’t _leave_!”

“And why not?” Carolyn replied with a shrug. She wasn’t nearly as upset as she should have been. Surely it was the crackling fire, and the sun trickling through the window, tricking her into thinking everything was fine. “I’ve been offered a fair role in a very successful enterprise. In fact, the way Mr Alyakin proposed it, I would be my own boss. It would give Arthur space to breathe, and give me... It would get me away from the storm brewing around my appointment here.”

“So you’re just running away?” Douglas demanded.

He knew he had no right to be angry. But he couldn’t stomach the sinking sensation in his guts, reminding him that every day that passed dragged him closer to the day he was alone and facing the future on his own. A pile of gold would offer a fantastic safety net. It was the last thing on his mind, however, as he watched the tiny figures in the photograph behind Carolyn’s head waved from where they were perched on their brooms.

“I am thinking of the future, Douglas,” Carolyn said calmly. “And I might add that it’s not really any of your business.”

“What about _Arthur_?”

“Arthur will get used to a new home, and a mother who isn’t hounded relentlessly. The money would support us both, and we wouldn’t have to deal with Gordon making demands once he knows we’re not at Hogwarts anymore. Without us here, exacerbating the situation, he loses his leverage. If we’re lucky, the Ministry will finally put an end to his dithering and interfering.”

Slumping, Douglas turned back towards the desk. He folded his arms, not caring how petulant he appeared.

“What would it take to make you stay?”

 “You won’t even be here, Douglas.”

“Humour me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about enough Galleons – converted into easily spendable pounds sterling – to replace Gordon’s wounded pride,” Carolyn replied. “Or slightly more than he seems to think GERTI was worth. He’s a cruel man, but his desire for revenge is nowhere near as grand as his desire for money.”

Without an answer to that, Douglas glared at the window behind Carolyn’s desk. He didn’t want to talk anymore. What did Carolyn care if he lost Martin a Quidditch match? She was prepared to leave – abandon all hope and give up.

He was saved from having to come up with an excuse for being in her office by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Carolyn commanded.

The door opened, admitting Professor Longbottom. The man, normally round-faced and pleasant, looked distinctly unimpressed – slightly amused, perhaps, if the light in his eyes was to be believed. Most importantly, he guided a distinctly ruffled Arthur into the office by the shoulder. Arthur refused to make eye contact. His hands were clenching at his sides as he pouted at the carpet. Nevertheless, he let Professor Longbottom guide him to a seat.

“Caught him hexing his cousin outside greenhouse three,” Professor Longbottom explained. “Kieran’s in the hospital wing getting tentacles removed from his chin, and Tiffany’s having a good long sulk in her dormitory.”

“Tiffany? Oh, Tiffy,” Carolyn shook her head and huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She crossed the room, pushing up her sleeves, and glared down at Arthur. “Before I completely lose my mind, Arthur, give me one good reason. One good reason that will make writing to your Aunt Ruth worthwhile.”

To Douglas’ surprise, Arthur picked at the arm of his seat and refused to speak.

Professor Longbottom handed Carolyn a crumpled sheet of parchment.

“Don’t go too hard on him.”

With one last pat to her shoulder, Professor Longbottom departed. Douglas watched Carolyn’s expression darken as she read the parchment, and then shake her head. Hand to her brow, she dropped the parchment in the fire and faced Arthur again. Although he felt like he should leave, Douglas couldn’t bring himself to rise.

“Arthur, I don’t care what anyone says about my role here,” Carolyn said.

“I didn’t mean to put tentacles on his face,” Arthur muttered. “I just wanted him to shut up.”

“Well valiant as your intentions were, you’ll still be attending detention with Professor Longbottom until the end of the week.”

Arthur nodded.

After a moment, his hand unclenched and another crumpled sheet of parchment fell to the ground. Douglas silently summoned it. When he saw what was written in now smudged ink, he felt his heart sink. He looked between them, but Carolyn had returned to work, puttering around her office with a quill tucked behind her ear, and Arthur was swinging his feet, toeing the carpet.

“Lunch is nearly over,” Douglas announced. His voice was uncomfortably jovial in the quiet. “If we’re quick, Arthur, we could fetch some cream cakes before class. Let’s go... Hmm?”

Arthur went without a fight.

The halls were bustling with students anxiously pacing before their next exams, and making the most of their last fifteen minutes of freedom. Douglas swung an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and started the journey downstairs. Neither spoke. Overall, Douglas wasn’t sure what he was thinking, or whether he had made a decision. What he _did_ know was that if anyone needed a win – or a pile of Galleons – it was Arthur and Carolyn.

And neither would agree to rigging the upcoming match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, so... I cheated and wrote some more before I finished (or even started) the next chapter of my novel, like the terrible person I am.   
> Hope you enjoy this awful deed.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The trudge back up the hill from Hogsmeade was a nightmare at the best of times. In the early summer drizzle, it was near-treacherous. That was one more thing on Carolyn’s list of reasons to despise Gordon Shappey.

A harried message from the wizard in the Post Office had drawn her down from the castle. She was there handed another letter, stamped with all manner of Ministry legislation, overlapping the marks already left by the Royal Mail, and the office from which it had been sent. It was the first letter she had received from any muggle other than her ex-husband in years; from a stranger no less. She had opened it in the Hog’s Head. Better there than in her office, where someone was likely to walk in and ask what was wrong.

The elf-made wine had helped somewhat with the urge to bury her head in her hands.

She hadn’t actually believed Gordon would be so stupid as to risk getting himself oblivated, but the letter-headed warning from his solicitors – who clearly had no idea who they were writing to if the misspelt address was any indication – left no room for doubt.

Of course, any attempt to send bailiffs in to retrieve GERTI – what they believed might be left of GERTI – would fail before it even started. Gordon knew that. Her reputation, however... Carolyn knew perfectly well it would never recover. Notoriety as a Squib didn’t lend her room to hang her head until the storm blew over. She would be run out of the wizarding world should any such scandal occur.

If only she could shut Gordon up for good... she hadn’t owned enough gold in her entire life.

Alyakin’s offer was starting to sound more and more appealing.

She would miss Arthur, during the school year... Hadn’t told him yet, although she was sure Douglas had probably mentioned it. Or perhaps he hadn’t. There was no telling with that boy. The past week had been evidence of that.

Carolyn nodded to the gargoyles at the gate. They let her pass without complaint.

Nice as it was to have a smiling servant who performed every task given without complaint, that wasn’t what she had taken on when she had taken Douglas under her wing. For the past week, however, Douglas had attended every flying lesson, saw dutifully to the young students, cleaned and scrubbed the equipment, and barely put a toe out of line. Carolyn wasn’t about to complain. It was odd, was all, and she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he was up to something.

If nothing else, it gave her something to contemplate other than her impending resignation.

By dinner, Carolyn’s mood had improved – in that she was suitably distracted by curiosity and a fair amount of suspicion.

The day’s lessons had gone well. Teaching gave her life an ideal sense on balance.

On the one hand, instructing children that didn’t listen, didn’t understand, and liked to throw in the occasional wild-card in the form of never-before-seen injuries offered a kind of steadying hand. Of course, nothing was as tiresome or difficult as teaching Arthur fractions, but it still kept her grounded and made her feel as though she really was toiling.

On the other, she did relish being in charge.

“Romesh! Hands _on_ the broom,” she snapped as she passed beneath through the shadow the boy cast on the grass below.

“Never fear!”

Douglas hurried – in as much as Douglas hurried anywhere – to cast a cushioning charm on the ground.

Carolyn moved on, monitoring the girls at the edge of the courtyard. The Quaffle they passed back and forth was about twenty years old, falling apart at the threading, but it was more important that they concentrate on not tipping sideways. Reaching up to right their brooms, Carolyn glanced towards the group huddled on the ground.

“Chit-chat all you like, you hapless receivers of knowledge – I get paid whether you learn to fly or simply leave my class to venture into the great unknown, climb on a broom, and plummet to your deaths,” she said. She made no effort to hide her satisfied smile when they grumbled and floated into the air. “Wonderful. Now, how about – Karen! Impressive as that was, do it again and I’ll be forced to give you detention.”

When the lesson drew to a close, Douglas was quick to gather the equipment.

“I’ll get it back to the shed,” he said. “Feel free to put your feet up.”

“Oh, believe me, I will,” Carolyn replied.

She watched him go, wondering how he could think for one moment that she was fooled. The keys to the cupboard slid across the top of the chest as he heaved it across the courtyard. She heard him huffing until he was out of sight. Anyone but a muggleborn would have cast a weightlessness charm before lifting it. Carolyn rolled her eyes and left him to it. Whatever he was up to, it must have been worth the trip down to the Quidditch pitch that he would never have taken otherwise without the lure of a game.

It wasn’t until dinner was over, and she saw Douglas hurry from the Great Hall alone, that Carolyn let her suspicion get the better of her.

On her way out, she stopped by the Gryffindor table.

“I’ve looked over your plans, Herc, and Matharan is a better reserve than Fabéan. Of course, we wouldn’t have an issue if your Chaser hadn’t sprouted wings four days before the match.”

“Much as I agree with you, it wasn’t _her_ fault she was sold a dodgy amulet,” Herc replied, spoon hovering under his chin.

“What sort of idiot actually buys those things?” Carolyn replied. Then she shook her head. “That’s not what I came over here for. Now... Do you know what Douglas is up to?”

For a moment, Herc resembled Mrs Norris when she had been caught sniffing around Carolyn’s office. Regaining his composure momentarily, he lowered his spoon into his soup and shook his head in an unconvincing lie.

“Absolutely not, no. However, if Douglas _was_ up to something... well, it’s _Douglas_ , isn’t it? He’s hardly a master criminal.”

“Hmm...”

Carolyn left the Great Hall feeling no more comforted, none the wiser, and determined to keep a closer eye on the boys until the end of term.

~~~

As the final match of the year grew worryingly near, Douglas was overwhelmed by a daunting touch of calm, creeping over him like fog. He knew what he needed to do. The execution would need work. What he needed was time to think through every possible thing that could go wrong. He had been doing that more often than not lately, pacing the halls, the keys to the Quidditch cupboard jangling in his pocket as he worked them between his fingers in an unpleasant, nervous tick.

They rattled so loud that, one evening, he hadn’t noticed the Bloody Baron drifting eerily down the corridor until the grim, bloodied figure billowed through an archway – sending Douglas skittering in the other direction, throat tight, ice charging through his veins.

In short, Douglas was brought to the edge of distraction.

It didn’t help that Martin seemed more eager than ever to spend time with him, and the sight of his ever-enthusiastic face brought forth a resurgence of age-old guilt, knotting in his stomach. Douglas sought refuge in the library, but even the lofty bookcases offered no solace. No sooner had he settled down with a book on the proper preparation of mandrakes for various medicinal potions than Martin dropped down across the table, red-faced and eager for a hearty debate over something or other.

“It’s just that with OWLs behind me, I think there’s a certain amount of leeway where training is concerned – even when the game season is over, I want to stay in fighting form in case whoever’s made Captain next year thinks I’m not serious,” Martin rambled on, barely noticing the fact that Douglas had his chin propped on his elbow, one eyebrow raised. “I mean, Theresa’s not worried. She’ll be Captain until she graduates – and she deserves it, I-I mean, she’s amazing-”

“Fascinating as your waffling always is, Martin, I have places to be,” Douglas said.

Martin’s wounded expression stayed with him for the rest of the day. It would be worse if he got so much as an inkling what Douglas was planning.

What Douglas hadn’t expected was Arthur catching on.

“Why’ve you still got Mum’s keys?” Arthur asked, the morning before the day before the match. He caught Douglas in an empty classroom, on route between Douglas’ History of Magic class and his Transfiguration. Routine had led him to poke his head into every room just in case Douglas had gotten lost – which had never happened, but Arthur insisted it might every time Douglas lagged even a little – and so there they were.

“Slipped my mind. Well noticed, Arthur,” Douglas replied. He turned his eyes back to the page he had been reading in the light from the window. In his moment of distraction, the words had jumped again, and he begrudgingly returned to the top of the text. “I’ll get them back to her, don’t you worry.”

For a while, that seemed like it might be explanation enough.

Arthur didn’t leave, but he didn’t make himself too much of a bother. He had been given a tricky spell to practice, so spent the next minutes jabbing his wand at an unsuspecting pin-cushion to no avail. It clearly had no more intention of being a hedgehog than Arthur had of executing the proper hand movement.

It made the time fly, even if poring over a book he didn’t really care for made Douglas’ head spin. Even if he passed his NEWTS – and he really thought he might have managed it, by some sheer stroke of luck that meant he had managed to carefully write every _important_ point, if not all the ‘context’ and ‘application’ Martin liked to go on and on about – there was little chance of him being allowed to practice Healing if he couldn’t pass St Mungo’s entrance exams. Which meant keeping his mind pliant... As soon as the plan was in motion, and the game was in play, he could focus... concentrate... relax in the knowledge –

“Douglas...” Arthur’s voice drew him from his reverie. He raised his head, and Arthur continued, tapping the end of his wand against his knee. It burned a small hole in his trousers, but didn’t seem to bother him. “You remember that talk we had... a little while ago? You know... the one where you said you definitely weren’t going to do anything to mess with Martin’s game against Herc? Slytherin against Gryffindor, I mean.”

Douglas did his best to appear pleasantly confused.

“I do as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

Arthur didn’t look any less sceptical – which was a bewildering look on him.

“Just because you’ve still got Mum’s keys, and only that you never really use them unless you’re stealing things from the supply cupboard, or doing something you shouldn’t be, because otherwise you’d just be doing jobs for Mum... which you don’t ever do,” he said. “And you’ve done things before that... You know...”

Setting his things aside, Douglas planted his feet on the floor and buried his hands in his pockets. Casual suited him comfortably – set his nerves at ease – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t squirming under his skin. Rubbing the back of his neck, he thought quickly. Then he looked Arthur in the eye and decided the best course of action was to tell him exactly what he had planned and hope for the best. So he did just that. When he finished, the both of them leaning over one desk and conversing in low whispers, Arthur’s expression was even more bleak than before.

“So... So you think if Dad gets Mr Birling’s gold, he’ll leave Mum alone?”

“I can’t say for sure. And even if he turns his nose up at it, it wouldn’t do any of us any harm to have a safety net, would it?” Douglas replied.

“No...” Arthur shook his head. “And... and you wouldn’t secretly just keep it?”

Douglas frowned, genuinely stung.

He placed a hand over his heart, theatrically aghast.

“To think, you would think I would do that,” he said. Then he shook his head and swatted Arthur’s shoulder. “Have I ever let you down before?”

“At least twelve times.”

“When it was something like this?”

“No,” Arthur said. He took a deep breath and stared down at his hands. He was silent for far longer than was normal for him – so long that footsteps sounded in the corridor as the rest of the school headed back to class. When he spoke, he sounded utterly uncomfortable, yet determined. “Douglas, I think... It’s not really fair on Martin, or Herc, or anyone really, but... But I think we really need to sort things out before they get worse. And if this helps... _I’d_ like to help, if you want me to, that is?”

Beaming in spite of himself, Douglas felt the first real spark of hope in weeks.

~~~

The night before the match, Martin was tucked away in the Ravenclaw common room, legs folded over Theresa’s as she used her pinky finger to direct the brush that was painting her toenails a vibrant shade of blue, apparently of its own accord.

He had trained every minute he could between classes, without Douglas’ guidance. Before and after dinner, Jutteau had had them out of the pitch, running drills and challenging each other in the same old ways. It was at times like these that Martin understood why such a foul person had been made Captain – while the rest of his team grew restless, Jutteau kept a level head, directing them with cool, if not rude and patronising, instructions, and stopped them descending into something dangerous.

The night should have been notable... Instead, he was knotted with dread.

“Do you think I’ve done something wrong?”

“What could you possibly have done wrong? And do you think Douglas of all people would stew over-”

“Yes, I do, because you so much as step on his toe and he clams up and holds it against you for weeks,” Martin muttered, grouching and folding his arms. “It wasn’t like I did it on purpose! Anyway... Maybe he’s... m-maybe he’s upset, because he didn’t get to see his last season to the end a-and now here I am, about to help Slytherin win – and that’s if I don’t mess it up, which I will – I mean, I can’t get lucky every time.”

Theresa’s hand was a soothing weight on his arm.

“Martin.” She held his gaze even though he wouldn’t, stern and steady. “Don’t you worry yourself over nothing. You and I both know that Douglas’ moods... well, they don’t always mean what he’s thinking, or what he really feels, and just because he doesn’t want to spend time with you now doesn’t mean you have done anything to feel sorry about. Don’t let this throw you off your game.”

“B-but I-”

“Both of you worked hard to get you where you are.”

“Yes, I know we did,” Martin insisted. “But-”

“But what?” Theresa replied.

“W-well, I... I didn’t think you’d let me finish that sentence,” Martin stammered. He flushed and heaved himself to his feet. It was late, and most of the house had long since gone to bed. Truth be told, he was terrified Filch was going to burst through the door and put him in detention for being out of the Slytherin common room after curfew. He paced as he worked his hands up and down his arms. “I’m just... I’m nervous. I’m always nervous when something like this happens and I... I really thought Douglas would... He’s my friend. He should be supporting me now. Oh, who am I kidding? He’s probably...”

Martin paused by the window.

It had been small – the slightest flicker – there again! A faint light, and a shimmer of movement, down on the ground below, crossing the grassy slope in the dark. It passed through a streak of moonlight. Whatever it was, it was long and disjointed. Martin peered down at it, confused.

“Theresa... Where’d you put your omnioculars?”

“On my bedside table, for tomorrow. Why?”

“Accio Omnioculars,” Martin said, reaching for his wand. He didn’t take his eyes from the grounds below, and regretted it when the small, binocular-like device clouted him in the side of the head. Wincing, he pressed it to his eyes and searched the slope. _There_! He huffed as ice coursed through him. “Oh, no you don’t!”

~~~

It was simple, in the end.

In the dead of night, once curfew fell, Douglas led Arthur from the kitchens and through the castle. They tread lightly. The only time he feared for their success was when three pearly white figures passed through the corridor ahead of them – through one wall, and then another, none stopping or looking their way. When they reached the air that the ghosts had touched, Douglas shuddered at the sudden chill. Then they were in the Entrance Hall, down the steps through a door Filch hadn’t yet locked, and scurrying along to the Quidditch pitch, far from anyone’s sight.

The trunk that the balls were kept in was easily duplicated.

The original lay open across one of the benches in the changing room. Although the charms on the original balls were too strong to dabble with – some failsafe put in place after a particular student had nearly been killed multiple times due to tampering – their duplicates were easily jinxed. A copy made of each was enough.

The Quaffle and Bludgers were easy to jinx in Gryffindor’s favour.

The Snitch needed enchantments the likes of which Douglas was afraid to replicate, in case he do a poor job. When it was done, however, with the added elements, he was sure that Martin would struggle to understand what he was doing wrong.

Perhaps the spectators would think he was losing his erratic, panicked touch?

Arthur didn’t say a word the whole time.

They headed out into the night with the original trunk suspended between them. The new one was locked safely away where Carolyn would retrieve it the next day, none the wiser, and set the balls loose. The real balls had to be hidden. There was only one place Douglas could think of on short notice now that the castle was likely secure to all but the secret passages in and out.

They made their way towards the Forbidden Forest as the moon broke through the clouds.

“Not far now,” Douglas said, grimacing with exertion he was glad Arthur couldn’t see as they reached the first line of trees.

Already, he could feel roots through his shoes, disturbing the lie of the land. Though the trees were thinly spread here, away from the path, they were thick, and tall, looming overhead. Branches cracked and rustled around them, filling the air with a brittle, daunting kind of quiet. Cowed, a lump in his throat, Douglas grasped the trunk’s handles tighter and set his shoulders back, keeping a steady pace.

“We shouldn’t need to go too far,” he said. “Just as long as no one finds it, everything should be alright. We’ll just have to be sure to get out here before Hagrid notices it and take it back.”

 Their progress was slow, and in truth they barely covered twenty feet, and yet Douglas could feel the night closing in around them as they entered the forest in earnest. For all the creatures it contained, there was something alive about the trees themselves... the crunch of the earth and the wind through the canopy.

He was struck by a dreadful sense of stepping into the gaping maw of some ancient, feral beast.

It took a moment to recognise a sound he knew well.

Before Douglas had time to do more than drop his end of the trunk, the broom and its rider met the ground in an unsteady, furious crash.

Martin Crieff was on his feet in seconds. He was evidently fuming. He took one look at the trunk, Arthur, and then Douglas, and didn’t look at all surprised. Broom in one hand, he half-paced two steps as he raised his voice, letting it echo carelessly amidst the trees.

“I knew it – I _knew_ it was too good to be true! Helping me, were you? All this time? Was that part of some scheme too? Don’t look at me like that, Douglas, I know what you’re like,” Martin snapped, jabbing a finger in Douglas’ direction. “Come on then – what’s this all about? You’ve stolen the balls, have you?” He nudged the trunk with his toe. “Don’t you think someone might notice?”

“There’s more back at the-”

“Oh, I _see_ , you’ve replaced them with balls that are – oh, I don’t know, _rigged_ against Slytherin?” Martin cut Arthur off before he could explain.

Arthur’s panicked, wide eyes flashed towards Douglas.

“Martin, how did you even get out of the castle?” Douglas asked, out of curiosity but more to distract him into leaving.

“Out the window – how do you think I? No, no – you can’t get me that easily,” Martin said, shaking his head, face twisted with a smile that was more miserably angry than glad. He sniffed and pushed his sleeve under his nose. “I can’t believe you’d drag Arthur into it-”

“I offered,” Arthur piped up.

Martin only looked more betrayed.

“Wh- _what_?”

“It’s for a really good reason though,” Arthur insisted. He looked again to Douglas, desperate to be saved. “Tell him, Douglas. I bet he’ll be fine with it, when you’ve explained.”

“Fine. Fine, alright then. I thought I’d save you the pain,” Douglas said. Forcing down a slight tremor, wounded though he knew he had no right to be, he kept his voice low. The dark was thicker here, more troubling. “I’ve been given an opportunity to come into quite a bit if gold, _if_ Gryffindor win, which they shall. Now, Arthur, grab your end, we’re moving.”

Snatching up the trunk as Arthur did the same, Douglas turned and marched deeper into the forest. He hadn’t planned on going any further, but he would rather not see Martin’s face right now. He had already worked it out in his head – didn’t need the guilt, or talking out of it. There were more important things than Quidditch and he was sick of sitting back and watching the world make its own decisions. He heard Martin crashing through the undergrowth before he saw him, and turned further from the path. That didn’t save him from Martin’s ever-more irritable tirade.

“So after everything we’ve worked for, e-everything we’ve done, a-all my hard work, you’re just going to screw me over?”

“You’re taking this entirely the wrong way.”

“No I’m not. I can see exactly what you’re up to and you’re doing what you always do. You’d think you’d learn, wouldn’t you? You got kicked off the team for doing something stupid too!” Martin kept going, grating on Douglas’ nerves as the roots around them grew – arched from the ground, gnarled and glistening like monstrous claws. “But I get it now – I really do. You’re the same as you always were. And I thought you were my friend! B-but you’re not. You’re a scheming, lying, cheat and you’d do anything for a bit more gold to throw away on – o-on firewhiskey, a-and whatever else-”

“That’s not what this is about!” Douglas yelled back.

He regretted it the moment his voice echoed in the vast space. The trees were denser here, the roots crowding them against trunks as thick as bodies, tall enough to blot out the moon. The forest seemed to be holding its breath... the eerie hush suspended on an inhalation, teeth dripping just out of sight. Their breath was silver at their lips. Douglas saw Martin and Arthur look around as he did, snagged by a fleeting fear of how heavy the stillness had become... how much more the shadows seemed to loom over their heads.

“Lumos,” Arthur whispered.

A pale light flickered at the end of his wand.

Douglas nodded gratefully. Then he saw Martin’s face fall slack with terror.

He whirled around in time to see a great, disjointed shape amongst from the mass of roots, and branches, and slopes deceptively hidden between the trees. Black as the shadows, it rose like a broken marionette – foul breath carried on the cracking, flexing of its joints. The spider’s eyes shone, wet and empty, in the wandlight. Without turning, it was clear that there were others, concealed, unable to hide the click and scrape of their movements any longer.

Then with a guttural sound, it streaked towards them in a sickening flurry of limbs.

Without thinking, Douglas ran. He didn’t let go of the trunk.

Arthur must have held on too, and Martin’s red hair was a clear mark at the corner of his vision. They ran together, barely knowing where they were headed. Douglas’ lungs burned but he daren’t stop. He didn’t want to look back. Only Arthur’s presence behind him made him turn his head, showing him the true horror of what pursued them.

No longer quiet, screaming out in ravenous, rattling hunger – gruesome sea of long, hairy, frantic legs, flashing razor sharp, carrying talons and tears and the rotting stench of death ever-closer.

Martin tripped.

Douglas went with him, and Arthur too, losing his grip on the trunk.

It burst open. The Snitch flew free.

 As they scrambled to their feet – Martin clutching his shoulder, dragging him upright, Douglas gazed helplessly around. His hand was gripped painfully tight – Arthur, panicked and stumbling. He had no idea where they were. No idea how deep, how dark, if there was any way out. All he knew was to keep running until it hurt, until the spiders were snapping at their heels, clawing at the air they had occupied moments before.

Again, Martin fell. Douglas dragged him upright.

A brush of air and a crack, and an arrow embedded itself in the tree between them.

“ _Argh_!”

Arthur’s cry split the air as the spiders swarmed the trees they had just fled through, and the slope ahead shook under the feet of half a dozen raging centaurs. Bows aloft, there was no knowing what they had intended to hit. They poured into down, hooves pounding with deadly force. Arrows flew. Arms over their heads, Douglas and Martin slid down to where Arthur lay on the forest floor, face contorted in pain as he clutched his leg.

“ _Arthur_! Arthur, look at me!” Douglas begged, hands on his shoulders.

“I-is he alright?” Martin asked, voice shrill as he huddled close.

“Does he look alright?” Douglas snapped, even as he felt himself thin and fade for just a moment, flinching as a spider screeched and thudded down inches from where they crouched in the roots. His hand came away from Arthur’s leg wet with blood. Fighting a sudden flush of dizziness, Douglas swallowed hard and summoned his voice. “We have to move – we can’t stay here. Can you get his legs?”

“A-and go where?” Martin exclaimed.

“Does it _matter_?”

Apparently it didn’t. Stumbling, crying out when a centaur nearly trampled him, Martin hoisted Arthur’s legs into his arms. He paled when Arthur groaned in agony. Douglas took his shoulders, as far from the blood as he could get. He didn’t want to rise. But another spider lurched towards them and he had no choice. Leaving the trunk open where it fell, he staggered backwards over roots and thorns, deeper into the forest.

“Careful – c-careful – left a bit!” Martin shouted.

Douglas did as he was told. A moment later, he saw a jagged rock pass by on his right.

With Martin’s instructions and sheer terror driving him, Douglas led them deeper, until the sounds of centaurs and spiders were quieted – not gone, but joined by the rustle of the trees and a far more terrifying silence that reined even while sound still existed. The trees were so close there was hardly room to move without jostling Arthur. Each time he groaned again. The roots were worse here, like the arms of some long-lost sea monster, searching.

Then suddenly, there were no trees at all.

Of course, Douglas could see the trees where they had come. But Martin’s voice died. He walked backwards, arms shaking with the strain, head still spinning, and didn’t collide with bark as he expected.

Daring to look over his shoulder, he saw stumps with shredded tops. The nearest trunks were shorn in half. Branches further out hung limp, burnt, broken.

And there... not so far out... where the ground had been churned and the roots ripped away... there stood a vast, curved stucture of blackened metal, round windows shattered, fragments strewn across the forest floor beside its mangled wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it.  
> This is what I've had in my head since I started writing this. This is the story. I can't tell you how excited I am right now, I've been writing non-stop for hours and it's - ugh - I'm so excited to be at this bit, finally!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! So this is my Christmas present to you - two chapters and the end of the story, all tied up before New Years. Hope you enjoy it. I certainly have.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Though GERTI’s charred fuselage was shorn well and truly in two, one half was so thoroughly embedded in the earth that the shelter it offered was absolute. Had it not been for the gaping hole overhead, they would have been shielded from the forest’s eerie crackle as they carried Arthur’s limp form down the aisle.

Douglas looked up as he gripped Arthur beneath his armpits. The stink of blood made his stomach churn. There were, however, no stars to offer comfort. The night sky was concealed behind the canopy.

As he and Martin helped Arthur into a seat – the back of which was bent at an unnaturally horizontal angle – a flicker of light caught at the edge of his vision. It was gone when he looked.

A prickling whisper brushed the curve of his ear. Douglas’ head snapped towards it.

There was nothing.

It was his nerves, Douglas told himself. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his robes and watched Martin fuss over Arthur’s wound. It made perfect sense to be concerned, he thought. They were utterly lost. There was no knowing what might be lurking in the dark, and he wasn’t sure anyone had ever been this deep into the trees.

“I’m alright, really,” Arthur was telling Martin. “It was just the shock is all. It put me to sleep for a bit, but I’m fine now.”

“You were unconscious!” Martin exclaimed.

“Only for a minute.”

“There’s a bloody great gash in your leg!”

“Well, yeah...” Arthur tried to bring his leg nearer for inspection, and flinched. His hands came away stained dark. “Ow! Yeah, that’s a – that’s a lot of blood... Wow...”

Stomach turning, Douglas paced down the aisle and gripped the back of the nearest seat. It was damp with mildew. He breathed deeply and let his amazement wash away the itch under his skin.

Tilted as it was, what remained of the floor was remarkably intact. The glass in every round window was shattered, treacherous where shards remained in their frames. Strong enough to have held its shape, the fuselage curved around them, cradling the seats in its shadow. There was no tail and no flight-deck, but one wing was visible through the gaps. A cool breeze blew from one end of the plane to the other. It seemed even the air was wary of moving too quickly.

Douglas tugged at his collar. He wondered if the magic inherent in the forest had helped preserve the plane upon landing. He was sure something was watching them, just out of sight. He should probably go and search for it...

“Douglas!”

Douglas whirled around.

“Yes, Martin?”

Martin still crouched beside Arthur. Both sets of eyes were fixed on him. The wind ruffled their hair and robes in a gruesome caress.

“I said can you do anything for this?” Martin said, voice sharp with pleading authority. He motioned towards Arthur’s wound, still weeping. “I don’t know how much more he can lose before he passes out again. We can’t carry him all the way back.”

“There’ll be no going back if we don’t work out where we are. I’ll scout ahead,” Douglas replied, spurred on by the tightness in his chest. He reached the largest gap in the tall metal wall before Martin lurched to his feet.

“H-hold on! What about Arthur?”

“Just wrap your cloak around it.”

“B-but-”

“Staunch the bleeding, that – that should be enough for now,” Douglas said. He supported himself on the opening’s sharp edge, thinking queasily of the basic rules of emergency healthcare that his parents had drilled into him when his brother had first broken his arm. He hadn’t enjoyed that much either.

“Douglas!”

“I’m going outside. You can deal with this, Martin, unless I’m sorely mistaken about-”

“Oh, I see,” Martin scoffed darkly. “You know, y-you won’t make much of a Healer if you can’t even take a bit of blood. That’s just fantastic.”

Douglas glared. His voice died. He turned away.

“N-no, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean any of what I said, just _please_ , Douglas – I wouldn’t be so upset if I didn’t know you _could_ sort this out if you just _tried_ to follow the rules,” Martin begged. His footsteps followed Douglas onto the forest floor. “I’m _sorry_!”

Without a backwards glance, Douglas stormed into the darkness.

He didn’t slow until the trees crowded unbearably close and their roots arched underfoot. The darkness was complete, the silence suffocating, except – a hiss like spider’s silk and a flash at the corner of his eye. Douglas jerked around, swiping at the shadows.

Nothing.

Something whizzed past his ear. Douglas cried out, but it stayed, hovered, bowing and swaying where it hung in the air. A familiar hum coloured the hush.

Exhaling sharply, Douglas snatched the Snitch from under his nose.

“I don’t suppose you know the way home,” he murmured.

The Snitch wriggled in his palm.

With a sigh, Douglas turned an uncertain circle. He was careful not to slip as something scuttled under his shoe the moment he lowered his foot. A mouse, he suspected. Everything looked the same – he could only vaguely see the path he had forged to get there. There was no knowing what might be hiding, but someone needed to get them home. It was his responsibility – his fault. He couldn’t face the shame of facing the others, as helpless as they surely felt.

And Arthur... he should never have led him into the forest. It had been a game when the year had begun – a way to make himself feel like a hero, or a Captain again, coming up with plans that he would never execute for the sake of Arthur’s excitement.

He would never forgive himself if...

Douglas withdrew his wand. “Lumos.”

Nothing leapt into the pool of white light. He remained on guard nonetheless.

~~~

A chilling creak drew Douglas from his unsteady journey through the trees.

The flight-deck rested on its side, in its own crater, mostly intact. Its white bulk gleamed when the wand-light fell over it. Douglas’ heart heaved at the sight. He hadn’t known what he had expected. It was like seeing a dream come to life – a terrible, dying dream that fulfilled every need regardless.

Craving a moment’s safety, Douglas hurried to the remains of the Galley, where the steel cupboards were blackened and stuffed with debris and branches, some of which had clearly been bent into nests. Their owners were absent. Muddied prints and drippings littered the wall – the deck lay fully on its side, making it difficult to stand upright. The door to the flight-deck hung open, swinging ominously in the breeze.

The creaking rose and fell like the cry of a wounded animal.

Turn back, Douglas thought- this is the wrong way, now turn back.

He stood, frozen where the door couldn’t bash him on its way up. Glass crunched under his shoes. What he could see of the flight-deck was black. The prickling at the back of his neck hadn’t stopped in the past ten minutes. He wanted to look. He daren’t.

There could be something living inside. Worse still, they had never found the pilots...

Fear wrapped around Douglas’ lungs like iron bars. He moved without thinking – clambered through the slanted doorway, heart thundering.

There was nothing. Not a body, or creature in sight.

One of the pilots’ seats hung precariously from where it should have been fixed to the floor. The other stuck out at an angle. The consoles were blackened, the lights burst, but otherwise intact. A chill poured through the wide opening where the windscreen should have been carrying a layer of silver mist. It was unnervingly still.

Douglas was struck with a strange impression of GERTI’s ghost.

Eventually, the deathly silence urged him into action. There were storage hatches embedded in the walls, near to the door. First-Aid kits were still safely stowed inside. Wherever the pilots had gone, they hadn’t sought remedies. There was something reassuring about the weight of the muggle tools in his arms – more substantial than the potions and herbs that Madam Pomfrey kept. At least this way they could disinfect Arthur’s leg and wrap it. It was better than nothing.

As for any hope of finding their way back to the castle without being trampled...

A shadow streaked through the wand-light.

Douglas pressed back against the curve of the floor. He slid as gravity took hold. Wand clutched in one hand, First-Aid kit in the other, there was little he could do.

The attack never came.

An indecipherable, inhuman whisper echoed inside the flight-deck. The Snitch fluttered in his pocket. With a furious, terrified grunt, Douglas wrenched himself through the flapping door and slid down through the Galley. Where the plane’s metal skin touched the earth, thick wiring exposed and hanging like veins from the lip, Douglas dropped.

For a moment, he slumped, pinching his brow.

How was he supposed to fix a mess like this? Carolyn would be furious. And speaking of Carolyn – he and Arthur had dreamed of finding GERTI for so long and this was what they got? Douglas rested his head against her side. She was meant to be the answer to all their problems. Instead, they had a wreck – a temporary shelter, perhaps, but nowhere near the hope they had longed for.

There _was_ no hope.

Sighing, Douglas dropped the First-Aid kit. He ran the wires beneath his palm between finger and thumb. Even now, they were cool to the touch. They glistened.

They shone.

Douglas raised his wand above the wires.

Something hot and bright burst in Douglas’ chest. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched up the First-Aid kit and rushed into the forest, wand aloft. He didn’t doubt that he would end up where he needed to be. He wouldn’t doubt anything ever again. He kept running until he saw the clearing come into view – saw the fuselage and Martin’s red hair illuminated by the light of his own wand.

“Martin! Catch!”

“Wh-what?” Martin fumbled with the First-Aid kit as Douglas raced past him, into the plane, feet echoing on the now-hollow floor.

Arthur jolted as he dropped to his knees.

“Douglas! You’re back!” Wait – what are you doing?”

“Yes, what _are_ you doing?” Martin demanded.

Douglas’ fingers burned as he dug at the carpet, half buried in the dirt. He yanked the carpet back to reveal a hatch on the floor. It was firmly locked.

“I’ve found it,” Douglas said though his teeth. Behind him, he could hear Martin marching back and forth in his usual, high-strung way. It didn’t matter. He jabbed his wand at the hatch. It cracked. The hatch sprung open. In the light from his wand, he saw exactly what he had expected – a glittering nest.

“Douglas!” Martin snapped. The plane shook as he stomped his foot. “What on earth-”

“If I get us out of this mess, will you forgive me everything?” Douglas asked, turning and kneeling so he could see them through the dark. “Think carefully about your answer.”

“F-fine, I’ll forgive you,” Martin said. “Now tell me what’s going on!”

Douglas turned his attention to Arthur, leaning bodily over his arm-rest.

“Arthur, tell me, did you know your mother’s aircraft was wired up with gold?”

For a moment, both boys stiffened and stared.

“Gold?” Martin repeated. His eyes went wide beneath a sheen of sweat and he tried unsuccessfully to turn in his seat. “No! Wow, that’s brilliant” We could use that to-”

“To pay your father off?”

“Yeah!”

“To be perfectly honest, Arthur, I actually thought this might be the reason your father’s so eager to get his hands on the plane,” Douglas said. He looked up at Martin and settled back on his haunches, resisting the urge to gaze down at the gold to boost the joy of being right. “He’s willing to risk being Obliviated after all – causing a political scandal with the Ministry, and I don’t believe for a moment he’d do that just to spite Carolyn.”

“Dad does love money more than he hates Mum,” Arthur agreed.

As he held Arthur’s gaze, Douglas felt the air ease around them. The darkness was just as thick, the quiet just as daunting, and yet... And yet he was thrumming with fire. They would make it out of the forest. No one would be forced into anything they couldn’t bear. The world was tipping once more in his favour.

“Right, to action-”

“Wait- wait – no, h-hold on!” Martin threw his hands in the air, staring between them. He was heaving with pent-up frustration. “Wh-what are you going to do? So there’s gold on the plane. So what? That’s not going to stop Arthur bleeding out, thanks to _your_ stupid plan! That won’t get us back to the castle alive – a castle we should never have left in the first place-”

“You followed.”

“Someone had to. Who knows what happens when you get carried away!”

“I thought you’d forgiven me,” Douglas said. He folded his arms, taking small comfort from the motion. “I thought you trusted me to _sort things out_.”

Martin’s expression crumbled ever so slightly as he stuck out his chin and shook his head. He was suddenly far less willing to make eye contact. “Just because I, I-I think you _could_ , doesn’t mean I think you _will_. You’re not some – some amazing force of will that never makes mistakes. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you were. Being good on a broom isn’t going to help us now. We need a _plan_ – a proper plan to make sure-”

“I _have_ a plan.”

“Oh, really?”

“Martin, I realise your opinion of me has fallen considerably tonight,” Douglas said, holding Martin’s gaze. Toe to toe, he was taller, broader, and yet Martin’s righteousness was enough to make anyone feel smaller. “However, as Arthur here will assure you, I know how to worm my way out of a pickle. It just takes a measure of faith in Fortune’s tendency to fall in my favour. So please, trust me when I say I have a plan.”

Martin puffed up and spluttered.

“You can’t expected gold to fall in your lap twice in one night!”

“No, but I can rely quite heavily on the fact that we are magic,” Douglas replied. “There is always a way out, so long as we’re willing to take a risk. Now... did you see if the centaurs trampled your broom?”

Martin’s mouth fell open. He clapped a hand to his head and staggered back.

“I-I don’t know...”

“Well, let’s hope I’m as lucky as I think I am,” Douglas said. He extinguished his wand and pointed it out, towards the open air. “Accio broom!”

The result was, he had to admit, anticlimactic. The night’s quiet returned. Douglas held his head high, refusing to admit even to himself that he might be wrong. A soft wince drew his attention back to the boy lying injured and even paler than before on the broken seat.

“You’ll be alright, Arthur.”

“Oh, I know,” Arthur replied. It was enough.

~~~

A whoosh of air was the only warning they got before martin’s broom streaked into the fuselage. It flew right past Martin, nearly clouting him on the head, into Douglas’ waiting hand. The rush of triumph was sweet enough to erase the nausea that had rattled through him as he bandaged Arthur’s wound.

“What did I say? Everything’s worked out,” Douglas announced, rising hastily. “Now, I’ll just fly up over the trees and back to the castle. I can have help here within half an house.”

“That’s great, Douglas,” Arthur said weakly. He had turned a worrying shade of green while his blood was being staunched. For once, his boundless energy was waning.

All the more reason to get a move on.

“I’ll see you later, Arthur.”

“No you won’t.” Martin blocked Douglas’ path. He snatched his broom back, running his hands over it a second slower than his eye. When he spoke again, his voice was clear and commanding. “You need to stay with Arthur. I couldn’t heal him if he gets worse and you – I-I didn’t mean – well, I did. But I know, really, you’re the only one who can keep an eye on him right now. So I’ll take this, a-and I’ll go for help.”

Douglas’ heart skipped at the vote of confidence, however misplaced.

“Martin-”

“You taught me to fly, didn’t you? So if anything tries to grab me on the way out, I’ll just... I’ll fly, won’t I?”

Douglas wanted to argue, but Arthur gave another pained whine as he shifted.

“Don’t be long,” he said, and clapped Martin’s shoulder.

Martin hesitated only a moment, as though surprised he had got his own way. Then he hurried from the plane. His footsteps crunched through the undergrowth – so long that he must have been searching for a clear view of the sky. Douglas could only hope he wasn’t set upon by another terrifying creature. That would be just his luck.

GERTI creaked unnervingly in the wind. After a while, rain began to patter on the metal, warding off the quiet and chasing away some of the chill. Arthur’s energy didn’t seem to extend to chatter, so Douglas slung his cloak over the boy and sat on the other side of the aisle, clutching the armrest.

The Quidditch match seemed as distant now as the dawn.

“It’s a shame everything went wrong,” Arthur murmured, head on his shoulder. “That was a really good plan. But I s’pose it won’t matter if Mr B doesn’t give you any money. That gold must be worth... Loads if Dad wants it so much.”

“That’s one way of thinking about it.”

“It just seems such a silly thing to be so mean about.”

Douglas didn’t know what to say to that. Simply, he felt wretched. The longer he sat, a breeze at his back, his wand casting distorted shadows, the less easy he felt in the hope that Marti had made it back safely. Even if he had, there was no knowing whether there would be enough of _them_ left to save.

A faint hiss flitted past Douglas’ shoulder.

His head snapped to the side. A shadow flashed though the light on the wall. Another indecipherable whisper sounded, out of sight. He could feel it this time, shifting in the air. Douglas stood. He held wand higher. The shadows were thrown into disarray.

“Arthur,” he breathed, “Don’t say a word.”

Typically, Arthur wriggled to see what was going on.

The hissing grew louder, nearer this time. Whatever was pursuing them, it was growing, weaving, wariness abandoned. Douglas followed it with the light – tried to, at least. He turned frantic circles as it chased his wand, until-

A bowtruckle hovered, transfixed in the glow. It squeaked.

At the edge of the gaping hole in GERTI’s side, half a dozen more stick-like creatures watched with their heads cocked to the side.

Douglas sagged. Then he heard shouts. A moment later, Martin charged into the fuselage. Hot on his heels were Carolyn, and with more brooms tucked under his arm, Herc. There had never been a more wonderful sight.

~~~

The best thing about Madam Pomfrey was that she didn’t ask many questions. So when Carolyn marched into the Hospital Wing, followed swiftly by Douglas and Herc supporting Arthur between them, and Martin with five brooms balanced in his arms, she barely raised an eyebrow. Soon, Arthur was tucked up in bed, bleary-eyed but ultimately cheerful. Douglas sat beside the bed, across from Herc, twiddling the Snitch without letting it fly. Martin perched at Arthur’s feet, telling Carolyn everything as she paced back and forth inside the curtained off area.

The scheme, the gold, Martin spilled it _all_.

“I knew it! I knew there was something! Self-congratulatory speeches were never Gordon’s thing. No, he’d throw away his pride in an instant for a wodge of cash,” Carolyn exulted. “Oh, yes! A plane full of gold! I can’t believe you found her, you brilliant idiots.”

“Only because of a terrible accident,” Martin interjected.

“Which I orchestrated,” Douglas added. “So it all ended well.”

“Yes, you _did_ orchestrate it, and a good thing too,” Carolyn said. She patted Arthur’s ankle as she passed. “This is perfect. Gordon’s through with his lawyers the moment they find out he lied about his assets. No wonder he was so sore about them giving me GERTI.”

“B-but you’re mad?” Martin said. “They’re getting detention, at least?”

Carolyn paused. She caught Douglas’ eye.

Martin’s face flushed red with indignation. “He was trying to cheat!”

“Of course he’s getting detention. My son’s spending the next few days in the Hospital Wing. I won’t have him getting off scott-free,” Carolyn said. “I must admit, Douglas, it does seem a little low even for you.”

“Mum, he was only trying to help,” Arthur piped up. He propped himself up as best he could. “Mr Birling said he’d give Douglas a load of money if Gryffindor won the match – like a big massive tip. And he was going to use it to make Dad leave us alone.”

“Is that so?”

“The thought may have crossed my mind,” Douglas admitted with a shrug.

“But of course, Carolyn has too much pride in her work to let you go through with such a stupid, dishonest plan,” Martin said. “She would never want to win that fight by cheating at a school Quidditch match.”

“Of course I would,” Carolyn scoffed.

Martin spluttered. “Wh-what?”

“I’d have _helped_ him rig the game,” Carolyn said, and Douglas felt a glimmer of pride. She glanced towards the curtain, making sure Madam Pomfrey wasn’t listening in, and wrung her hands with vigour. “Well, no need now. We found GERTI once, we’ll find her again, in the morning. Arthur needs his rest and I need a word with him.”

Leaving a suddenly sheepish Arthur to his fate, Douglas led the way from the Hospital Wing. If he got his way, he would clamber into bed, refuse to think of the nightmare they had gone through, and sleep through tomorrow’s match. Martin grumbled, but fell into step between him and Herc. None spoke at first.

There was too much Douglas wanted to say to Martin, but he wasn’t sure what he would get in return. So he turned his attention elsewhere.

“You’re awfully quiet, Hercules.”

“Well, I was on my regular patrol – mercifully without my fellow Prefects – when Martin came raring through the Entrance Hall,” Herc replied. “It rather put a stop to whatever else I was thinking. Besides, I can’t help but be rather pleased by the fact you were actually going to swing tomorrow’s match in my favour. I’m touched.”


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The morning of the match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Arthur limped from the Hospital Wing at the break of dawn to join his mother on the lawn at the foot of the castle. They watched the tiny figures darting about at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Headmistress McGonagall and Hagrid directed the Ministry witches and wizards they had sent to retrieve GERTI from deep within the trees. Although he was tired, Arthur was sure he had never seen anything as brilliant GERTI’s great, hulking piece float weightlessly from between the trees.

“There she is... the old girl,” Carolyn said, as though to herself.

“What are you going to do with her?” Arthur asked.

“Well, at the moment, she’s not good for much more than scrap. I’d like to get hold of her black box, to find out exactly what your father’s minions thought they were up to – anything to make the whole process easier.”

“But surely we can fix her?” Arthur hooked an arm through his mother’s, though he was taller than her by far. She patted his wrist and he pushed on. “What’s the point in being magic if we can’t put GERTI back good as new?”

Carolyn sighed and stared out into the early morning light.

“That’s just it, dear-heart. _I’m_ not magic, and I _can’t_ just wave a wand and set her to rights. And I know I could ask the Headmistress, but I can’t say I’m entirely happy with the thought of being even more of a... of a burden, and a helpless one at that.” Carolyn shook her head. “What would I even _do_ with a fully functional plane? It was all well and good when I was a little bit younger, jetting about... but I don’t belong in the muggle world, and _I_ can’t fly her.”

“Just hire some pilots then,” Arthur said.

“How would I ever make my money back?”

“Ask people to pay for rides,” Arthur said plainly. Though his mother didn’t look at him, he watched her expression pinch further as she tried unsuccessfully to look as though she wasn’t as affected by the future as he was. Difference was, he couldn’t understand why she was so worried. He shrugged. “Honestly, Mum, that’s what everyone else who owns planes does.”

Carolyn rolled her eyes. She wrapped her cloak more securely around herself.

“That’s neither here nor there...” She sighed. “I suppose it’s a good thing summer’s nearby. I’m not sure even I could sort out the mess GERTI’s going to land us in _and_ teach the First Years how not to break their necks. That really is a full time job... a tiring one at that. It might even be peaceful, deciding what to do with her.”

Arthur nodded, but kept his mouth shut.

No matter how much he liked having his mother at school with him, he couldn’t help thinking that as much as _she_ liked bossing people around, she would have much more fun doing so on a plane that she owned, with adults, than in a school full of children she had to care for. Hogwarts was brilliant, but she had only come back because it was the only place she had felt like she belonged – no longer a Squib among a family of wizards, or lost amidst a sea of muggles who didn’t know half the world she did. If she could travel the world... the look on her face as she gazed at GERTI was proof of how much she wanted it.

“You’re not really going to punish Douglas, are you?”

“Oh, I absolutely am.”

“Oh... alright.”

“Arthur, go inside and rest your leg,” Carolyn sighed. She patted his arm one last time before stepping away and buttoning her cloak. “I need to head into the village before the match. There’s a payphone on the main road – I’ll take a broom, don’t worry.”

Much as he wanted to watch GERTI appear in her entirety, Arthur knew not to push his luck.

~~~

“ _You’ve had a good long think then, have you_?”

Gordon’s voice on the end of a crackling, reedy line was no less irritating. Nevertheless, Carolyn was buoyant as she pressed the phone to her ear. Standing on a barren road, ten miles from Hogsmeade, with a handful of muggle change that she didn’t intend on using to prolong the call, she couldn’t help rocking on her heels.

“At what point, Gordon, were you going to tell me there was gold in GERTI?”

“ _Ah... So you, ah... You found her then?”_

“You’re admitting now that she _was_ lost, and that I wasn’t just withholding her?” Carolyn replied. “Make sure to jot that down in writing, will you? Unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t dredge up all kinds of secrets – first of all being where you got all that gold in the first place, why you didn’t let your then-wife know that you had that much money tucked away somewhere, and, well... I suppose this would make a reasonable, very believable motive for sending your goons to steal my property, wouldn’t it?”

There was a tangible pause at the other end of the line.

“ _Yes... it doesn’t look good written down, does it? Of course, I’ll still have her off you-”_

“You’ll keep your grubby hands off my jet,” Carolyn snapped, and slammed the phone down.

Her anger was replaced immediately by a rush of joy. Grin refusing to fade, she took her broom from where she had propped it against the phone-box and set of down the road with a swing in her step.

~~~

In the changing rooms, the rumble of the crowds was deafening. Slytherin versus Gryffindor had always instilled more excitement than any other match. And yet, Martin wasn’t sure he had expected it – or perhaps the events of last night had shaken him to his core. Not the danger, but the realisation that he couldn’t rely on Douglas.

Unless he really _needed_ help, in which case Douglas always came through for them.

Martin clutched his broom as he watched Jutteau march back and forth, a stern mass of green talking down to an equally queasy looking group of teenagers. That was what Martin felt like – a child in the face of everything he had ever dreamed off, feeling thoroughly disheartened. For the first time, he felt one with the rest of his team. They weren’t his friends. They never bothered spending time with him when the after-match parties and snacks had ended. And yet they were united in this.

It wasn’t fair.

Why did Douglas get to build him up, make him think he was doing the most important thing he would ever do in his life, and then throw it all into perspective by sacrificing his own safety and reputation, rigging the match as though it were nothing?

Because it was nothing, Martin understood. Quidditch hadn’t done half as much for Douglas as Carolyn and Arthur had.

“Do I train you to sit around? No?” Jutteau drew the attention of his team back to him with a softly condescending smile. “Then get on your feet and get onto the pitch. Now – go on!”  
~~~

The stands were alive with anticipation in the summer sun. Rather than join Arthur and Theresa down below, in the Ravenclaw seats, Douglas attended to Mr Birling’s demands in the governors’ box. The bet didn’t matter, but he had promised to serve drinks and ferry snacks back and forth, offering support for Gryffindor, and Douglas was nothing if not a man of his word. The higher vantage also offered a clearer view of the game. It was just a shame that he was no longer all that interested.

There was no way of knowing who would win.

Slytherin was skilled at playing the long game – they tired out their opponents and stole the victory from under their exhausted noses. Gryffindor, under Herc’s tuition, was just plain good. One on one, they outranked every one of Jutteau’s players, including Martin.

Tearing his eyes from the players soaring in circles, ready for the match to begin, Douglas turned his back on the pitch in time with the shriek of Carolyn’s whistle. He heard the cheers. He poured a tumbler of rich, golden whiskey.

“Now that hits the spot, my boy,” Mr Birling said, throwing it back.

“It makes the game a little more interesting, I’m sure, sir.”

“Of course, of course – dreadfully dull sober,” Mr Birling replied. “Still, it gets me out of the house and away from my horrible wife. You know she can’t stand all this whizzing about? It takes a refined palate to enjoy this game. It should be relished, and there’s no better way to do that than with your feet up and a full glass in your hand.”

“Yes, sir.” Douglas refilled his drink.

A cheer rippled around the stands, as the stamping of feet increased. The whole structure shook. It was followed swiftly by the chime of a bell, and Karl’s magically enhanced voice.

“And that’s ten points to Gryffindor!”

A minute later, the bell rang again.

“ _And_ another ten points to Gryffindor – a fine shot there from the youngest team member. She’ll be running the team soon, just you wait. Then again, Slytherin’s Beater looks like he’s been confounded, so it’s not that much of a victory.”

“Very nice, very nice,” Mr Birling commented, smacking his lips. He accepted the warm towel Douglas offered him to dab on his brow.

The match went on longer and longer, doing nothing to quell Douglas’ poor mood. He paused every now and then, to watch Martin, but Martin was hovering high above their heads, waiting for the opportune moment. He was waiting until Slytherin had enough points to decimate the other teams on the league table – there was no other explanation. That was how Slytherin worked. After last night, thinking he had been betrayed, Douglas wouldn’t be surprised if Martin was determined to win more than he had been before.

It would take a while, however. Soon, Gryffindor had scored so many goals that catching the Snitch would still leave Slytherin with far fewer points. Slytherin’s Chasers had begun to catch up, but Herc’s team was quick. At two hundred points to thirty, Martin would have to hold back if he wanted any hope of winning.

So Douglas listened to the whoosh of the brooms going by and served drinks.

For the first time, he wasn’t longing to be up there with the players.

Suddenly, the cheers turned into something fierce. Gasps crashed through the crowd, rising up like a storm. Against his will, Douglas turned to watch. Mr Birling did the same. Karl was narrating endlessly, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on a single green blur, apart from the rest, streaking towards the ground. Martin must have seen the Snitch, but – Douglas looked towards the score-board – if he caught it now, Slytherin would lose. One hundred and Fifty points weren’t enough to put them in the lead.

Douglas gripped the edge of the stands. The wind coursed around him.

“Pull up! Pull up!”

Martin _did_ pull up, hand outstretched.

The Slytherin stands erupted into screams of delight, dying quickly as the Gryffindors roared their excitement.

“Slytherin’s Seeker has the Snitch! The match is over! It’s all over!” Karl yelled into the microphone as Carolyn blew her whistle and raced around the pitch, bringing the other players to a stop. The commentator’s voice rose higher. “That makes the final score One Hundred and Eighty to Slytherin, and Two Hundred to Gryffindor! Gryffindor wins!”

“Oh, the brilliant, incompetent fool,” Mr Birling said. Unsteady on his feet, pleasantly thrilled, he clapped Douglas’ shoulder and dropped a sack into his lap. “There you go, you obedient toad. Spend it wisely. Pour me one last drink, leave the bottle, and make sure to congratulate the Gryffindor Captain for me.”

Douglas wasn’t sure what had happened. His mind had stuttered to a halt.

One moment, he was staring down at the gold in his hands. The next, the sack was buried in his robes and he was down on the pitch. Martin was running across the grass, broom in hand, oblivious to Jutteau’s furious shouts.

“Douglas!”

“Martin, you idiot!” Douglas shouted back. He opened his arms, spotting the hop in Martin’s step and the jolt that made it look as though he were going to trip into a hug – but Martin caught himself and there was no need. So he grasped his shoulders and shook him proudly anyway. “Twenty more minutes and your team could have saved that. You’ve thrown the whole league for the sake of twenty minutes! What were you thinking?”

“I caught the Snitch!” Martin yelled. He waved his clenched fist in Douglas’ face. The golden wings fluttered between his knuckles. “Look at this! It’s all I wanted!”

“But you could have _won_!”

“Well...” Martin shrugged. He was jostled by the Gryffindors hurrying past him, patting his shoulders and cheering him on as they tried to reach their own team. “Well, I-I thought – did you get it? From Mr Birling? Did you get the gold?”

Realisation cut through Douglas like a sweet, silent knife.

“You threw the match for...”

“For a cut of the gold,” Martin said with a brief nod. That hadn’t been what Douglas was going to say at all. His face reddened as he ran his hand through his already ruffled hair. “W-well, the way I see it – you were right, last night. There are more important things than Quidditch and – a-and I still got to catch the Snitch. And we got the gold. A-and if Carolyn and Arthur have their _own_ gold, then they don’t need it anymore, do they? You certainly do if you want to have any fun when you leave school, a-and I could use a new broom.”

Douglas stared back at him with something akin to wonder, hand pressed over the lump in his robes where the gold rested. Understanding flowed freely between them – perhaps even some admiration. He wanted to pull Martin into a hug but he hadn’t the chance. In a flash, Theresa hurtled into Martin’s side and kissed him soundly, screaming at the top of her voice – Arthur close behind, without the kiss, but equally as bouncy.

“You were wonderful, Martin! Truly, wonderful!”

~~~

“I don’t think I’ll sell GERTI for scrap,” Carolyn said.

She swirled her firewhiskey around the bottom of her glass where she sat behind her desk, feet up. The fire burned merrily, filling her office with warm amber light and shadows that swayed in time to their own tune. Arthur, Martin, and Theresa had taken over the long sofa, Herc the uncomfortable chair from which he admired the Quidditch Cup adorned with red ribbon, and Douglas the window sill, letting in a cool breeze.

The little Arthurs and Carolyns on the walls seemed to display the plane in the background of their portraits with particular pride.

“Brilliant,” Arthur said.

“It would be a shame to scrap such a nice aircraft,” Herc said.

“You _couldn’t,”_ Martin chimed in. He was wide awake, tense at the thought. “That’s a Lockheed McDonnell – it’s rare. There can’t be more than six left in existence.”

“So worth a pretty penny then,” Douglas said.

“That’s not the point!”

“Oh, I think that depends entirely on how much of a pretty penny it is.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll sell her. Not after all the hassle I’ve received in her name,” Carolyn continued. She sipped her drink leisurely. “No... No, I think once I’ve saved up a bit, I’ll have her restored. Not by muggles, necessarily. Weasley’s still at the Ministry, isn’t he? He’d be happy to help be put the old girl back together.”

“And then we can fly her?” Arthur asked.

“I think, given that we are all still teenagers and none of us knows how to pilot a plane, that might be a little difficult,” Theresa said. She rested her head on Martin’s shoulder, touching a hand to his chest every now and then to encourage him to just relax. She smiled serenely. “It _would_ be nice though... Isn’t there something magical about the thought of flying without – well, without magic?”

Douglas caught Herc’s eye. The other man hastily looked away – then looked back, a defiant insistence that he didn’t say a word of his plans for the future. That didn’t mean Douglas couldn’t poke fun.

“It’s not _that_ magical,” he said. “Muggles do it all the time.”

“It’s great,” Martin agreed. “I used to look up at the dots in the sky and wonder how they did it. And GERTI, she’s... I can’t believe she survived so long in the Forest.”

They sat a while in silence, each of them occupied with their own private sphere, and yet when Douglas looked between them he didn’t see a flicker of discontent. He wondered if they, like him, were suddenly aching with an odd kind of wistfulness for these four walls and the crackles of the logs in the fire. Soon, there would be no more hiding away in Carolyn’s office and pretending it was because he owned the place. Eventually, he saw Carolyn sit up straight and lean over the desk – business-like.

“In all seriousness, you horrible children,” she said, voice clear enough to garner their full attention. “I am grateful for your support this year. I’m even marginally proud of how well you’ve done on the pitch – and in training others to do well on the pitch,” She offered Douglas a fleeting nod. “All it proves is that I am an exceptional Professor, and you can’t say fairer than that.”

“Without your firm hand, we’d be nothing,” Theresa agreed.

“You would be something,” Carolyn replied. “A useless something, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Even if you weren’t a good teacher, we still wouldn’t be alright with the way people talk to you,” Herc said. “There’s no reason Squibs-”

“What Hercules means to say – and I’ll interrupt him before he does – is that each of us knows perfectly well what it means to be the underdog, and none of us are willing to see someone we so respect treated as such,” Douglas interrupted. He raised his glass of pumpkin juice in mock toast. “No-one thought a muggle-born could be the best Chaser this school has ever seen, and yet... here I am.” He smirked as Martin rolled his eyes. Then he scoffed. “Except Theresa, of course. She’s never been an underdog in her life.”

“Nor have I,” Carolyn said curtly, but she smiled into her glass.

“I know everything’s not sorted yet, but it will be soon though, right? I mean, Dad’s not going to get you in trouble with the Ministry?” Arthur asked. He turned his glass uncertainly in his hands. “You can keep teaching?”

“For now. You’d be surprised how easily the governors give in when presented with a length of gold wire. Although, actually, it’s not surprising at all,” Carolyn assured him. With a self-satisfied grin, she sat back. “I’m comfortable here. Life at Hogwarts might even be nice when you miscreants are gone. GERTI will make a lovely lawn ornament when she’s mended. And maybe... perhaps when I’m sixty-three, I’ll see if I can get her in the air again. It would make a nice retirement project.”

~~~

On the last day of term, Douglas sat at the edge of the lake, re-reading the letter that had been delivered by an unfamiliar owl that morning. It had been a surprise. For a moment, he had thought his parents had sent something via the Post Office, but the handwriting was strange and looping, and far neater than his mother’s scrawl. Its contents had disturbed the resigned sense of acceptance that had settled in his guts the day after the last match.

Watching Herc and his team celebrate over breakfast had been enough to make his stomach turn, no matter how cheerfully Martin patted his back.

Working up the nerve, Douglas read the letter again.

_Young Mr Richardson,_

_Douglas, lad – I sincerely hope I haven’t been forgotten in the short while since we last spoke. I received your missive. A fine way with words, you have. That sort of thing is useful out in the field, if only for warding off the dreadful boredom._

_Though it is with great sadness that I accept your decision to study at St Mungo’s, it should come as a comfort to know that a recommendation from Carolyn Knapp-Shappey is a permanent bookmark in my mind. The offer remains. Should you ever change your mind, lad, write to me again and I’ll be glad to take you under my wing. There are countries to see, people to meet, and miles and miles to fly should you still want them._

_Needless to say, don’t spread this around. I know what boys are like, and I tell you now, I’m not holding open auditions for an assistant. Any takers will be turned away._

_Make the most of your summer. Get the hours in. Sound advice, this is. All my best wishes for your future (though I pray for failure if it brings me an extra pair of hands)._

_It’s worth being proud of yourself just for trying,_

_Rory Greenhill._

Douglas looked out across the lake. The squid flicked spouts of water into the air, letting the sun stream through them. He really did want to be a Healer. He had every intention of taking his Healer’s robes home for his parents – surgeons sceptical of magical healthcare – to see. And yet... there was something in knowing that he had a safety net. Not even a _safe_ safety net, but something exciting and free – a dangerous, unreliable offer of escape that he wouldn’t take, but still... Rory Greenhill had faith in him.

A weight lifted from his chest.

A part of him rather liked the idea of failing... he shook himself.

“Have you even finished packing?” Martin’s shadow arrived before he did.

He dropped down on the grass without an invitation and shirked his cloak. Why he had worn it in the summer heat was a mystery that Douglas didn’t want to delve into. The boy was a veritable disaster of uniformity.

“There are a few items of interest scattered about,” Douglas admitted.

“Right, w-well I’ll be clearing out your room then, shall I? Anything I find that’s worth more than five galleons, I’ll – w-well, actually, I won’t take it. That wouldn’t be right. But you should head back inside soon.”

Douglas tucked the letter into his front pocket. Propping himself up on his arms, he took the time to really look at Martin. He would miss him, he realised, as he watched the boy fuss over the cuffs of his own sleeves. Midges were buzzing around his head, and he was doing a poor job of blowing them away from his nose.

“You’re trying out for the team next year?”

“Of course I am,” Martin replied. “Jutteau’s leaving, so I should have an easier job of it.”

“Good. I put too much effort in for you to quit.”

Martin stared back at him. His throat bobbed.

“Thank you,” he said, eventually. There was more in his expression, infinitely more in his eyes, but Douglas was glad he reined it in.

Douglas nodded and patted Martin’s arm.

“And you?” Martin asked.

Douglas shrugged.

“Off into the sunset, I suppose. But I’ll do it brilliantly.”


End file.
